Shadow of the Stars
by mischievousmoonhunter
Summary: Jaylin Rogers has always struggled with being the daughter of Steve Rogers, aka Captain America, mostly because of her lack of freedom. After a failed attempt to do something about this, her life is changes forever when a shadow from her father's past returns to haunt her.
1. Chapter 1

It isn't easy, being the daughter of super-soldier Steve Rogers – better known as the legend Captain America. Not at all.  
First of all, it is never fun to always be "daughter of" and nothing more. You quickly learn to live inside a shadow. Your last name will always be far more important than your first, even though that's the one identifying you.  
Second of all, it is weird. I mean, he's older than many (if not most) grandfathers, yet on bad days he might look barely older than 30. And… let's just say that as I got older, and the girls around me got older as well, those girls started to notice how "young" he was.  
Third, I wasn't super. At least, not _nearly_ as super. Having only half of his genes meant I was maybe a bit faster and stronger than most people without having to work out 24/7, but being healthy, never getting a cold or beating all high school boys in sprint doesn't make you "cool" or even likable.

They did say I look like him, with my blue eyes and blond hair. Mine are both darker, less… pure. As if my appearance was a confirmation I wasn't as good as him - proof of being in a constant state of disappointment.  
As a little girl, you quickly learn the other kids only want to play with you because they want to see your house and the stuff in it. Everyone always seems to look right through _you_. I can tell from personal experience it is pretty traumatic when other pre-schoolers get mad at you because no one is allowed to come home with you… Let me say: you learn to SHIELD yourself from other people… Sorry, that was bad.  
But yeah…  
Admittedly, there are _some_ advantages to being spawn of _the_ Steve Rogers; you never get bad grades on history tests and essays. Oh, you also have lots of non-related, vengeful aunts and uncles. With vengeful I actually mean the Avengers. They are cool, though dad tries to keep me away from that world.

Aunt Nat is amazing, and she's actually my best friend. She taught me everything I need to know about being a girl, and I think dad still owes her for not having to deal with any of my "woman inconveniences".  
Then there's Sam. He's one of the nicest guys I know and probably the most normal one, too - even though he regularly soars through the sky with metal wings strapped to his back. He's a good support in a world that is totally abnormal, despite your father's attempts to make sure you don't get caught in his own, strange reality. Sam understands how it feels to live in between those two worlds – the one where they worry about their grades, crushes, jobs and promotions, and the one where you're in a constant state of vigilance, knowing no one is who they say they are. He's the most stable part of my life; a sturdy pillar to hold me up.  
One might think this connection and support would mean I'd be happy to see him when he picked me up after school. In reality it didn't, because it meant dad was on another mission and hadn't had time to say as much as "goodbye".

'If it isn't the messenger,' I grunted, pulling the car door open with a mean swing. Had I had my father's strength, it would've been dangling in my hand, torn loose from its hinges.  
'Hello to you too,' Sam greeted me, leaning undisturbed upon the sleek car. It was a dark blue model, matching the navy blue jacket the driver was wearing today. It fluttered a little in the heavy wind, which also rustled through my ponytail.  
I slumped down in the passenger seat and shut the door - not too carefully - all the while I kept staring straight ahead. 'How's _the captain_?' I sneered.  
Sighing, Sam got in, closing the door behind him. 'He didn't know he'd have to go, you know.' That I knew, very well. Still, I looked out the window with a constant frown on my face. The keys jingled when Sam turned them to start the engine. The car hummed a pleasant, low rumble, and barely made a sound as Sam steered it towards the tranquillity of our home.  
It would take us while until we would reach the niceness of familiarity. For now, I just watched blankly as teenagers laughed and complained while stepping into their cars, all happy to go back to their ordinary home and ordinary parents. All of them were quickly out of view, replaced by the many other aspects of mundane life. 'You are such a little beam of sunlight, aren't you?'  
I was aware of Sam's eyes glancing back and forth between the road and me, those brown eyes always full of worry. If I were to look at him, my angry mask would break, so I kept staring ahead. 'Humph…'  
'That's all I get? I come here, especially for you, and you don't even smile. And I do like your smile so much, Jay…' I could no longer resist; I gave him a sly look and met his kind and teasing expression. I smirked, laced with a genuine – though slightly unwilling – smile. 'That's my girl,' Sam smiled back. 'How was school?'  
Ugh, school; I rolled my eyes. 'The usual. You know, I don't see the point in testing how many presidents we can memorise, there aren't that many.' I breathed on the window and drew little stars, which vanished within seconds.  
'Not everyone has super memory,' Sam remarked.  
I grimaced at him. 'I'm nothing compared to dad. Besides, what is the use of knowing all American presidents?'  
'Says the daughter of America's greatest patriot…' Sam smiled at the road ahead.  
'Exactly.' I sunk a little deeper down into the seat, so I could only barely catch glimpses of the colours rushing past the car's windows. 'I can know.'  
I watched as we drove into a quieter lane guarded by high trees, until we arrived at an electronic fence, which opened automatically when the cameras recognised our faces.  
We lived far away from the city, somewhere surrounded and guarded by tall trees. Here, you never heard the constant noise of traffic, or the never-ending murmur of voices. Only here, I knew true silence, were it not for the evermoving branches with their rustling leaves.  
'How was your day?' I informed, hauling my backpack over one shoulder and closing the car door behind me, still a bit of annoyance packed in the gesture. Together, we made our way to the big, white house, oozing America. Made of wood, with a big porch, two stories and even an attic, perfectly maintained; exactly as you'd expect from Captain America's home. Soft leaves crackled underneath our feet, giving a lovely, autumny atmosphere to this already idyllic picture.  
'Also the usual,' Sam held the door for me. 'Want waffles?'  
I threw my bag on the kitchen table. 'Is that even a question?'  
'What's the magic word?'  
'Please,' I grinned. 'Or else…'

I watched Sam take everything he needed, prepare the batter and begin making the waffles. He did it with the ease of a man who'd done it a hundred times before – which was about right, to be honest. I loved Sam's cooking.  
'Nat's with him?' I asked, walking towards the fridge where I took a bottle of glacier water (it had become my favourite after a joke of Natasha and Tony had stuck around).  
'Yeah, though they didn't need me, for some reason.' Yet again I was amazed at how little Sam seemed to care about that.  
'They need you to babysit,' I chuckled, nudging him as I walked by. 'Even though I don't need it, I appreciate it.'  
Sam glanced back at me. 'I'm happy to hear that.'

'Mmm,' I hummed a while later as I poured maple syrup all over my waffles, 'you're such a good mommy bird.'  
'I will take that as a compliment,' Sam said the moment my phone buzzed.

 _Dear Jaylin,_

 _I'm sorry I had to leave again, so soon after my last mission.  
Sam promised me he'd take care of you.  
I trust you will behave._

 _Love,  
Dad_

When I read "I trust you will behave," I grimaced at the screen. How old did he think I was? It was frustrating; while other people often thought I was quite a bit older than I actually was, my dad still seemed to deem me no more than a foolish little girl. It was especially frustrating because I had always felt different, maybe even older, than most children surrounding me. It had often crossed my mind this might be another result of my father's genes – how they even interfered with how I grew up, refusing to grant me as much as a normal childhood.  
'Sometimes I feel like I should date someone dad _really_ dislikes,' I mused abruptly. I imagined myself coming home with the biggest jerk I could find and shivered.  
Sam's cheeks rose as he took a sip from his large mug filled with strongly smelling coffee. 'I would be worried, if I didn't know you have more pride than your dad.'  
'Sadly, yes.'

 _Hey, Natasha…  
Forgot something…?_

I waited. Dad usually send his messages late, but Natasha didn't; she knew exactly how I felt about their sudden disappearances and the radio silences that usually followed. It's how I got to hate surprises, as surprise never held a pleasant meaning for me, only that my father had to save the world again.

 _I'm really sorry  
I was really busy  
I'll make it up when we're back…?_

Even these texted words were hasty. Still, they seemed genuine enough.

 _Sure  
Keep him safe, will you?_

I was aware It wasn't much of a message, but it was all she would need; Nat knew me too well to think I'd stay mad at her.

'So,' Sam said, when I had finished eating, and I had put down my phone, 'are you going?'  
'Going where?'  
Sam raised his eyebrows. 'The gala. I saw the flyers.'  
Flyers? Some brightly coloured papers seemed to hang before me. Curly font spelled out the date of a gala (or a masked ball) for all students. Apparently, it was going to be quite fancy. Now I thought about it, I recalled many people at school excitedly discussing the event. 'Oh, that… No, I don't think so.'  
'Well, it's more than a month away,' Sam said confidently, like he was certain I would change my mind. This self-assuredness annoyed me.  
'I'm really not going,' I stressed. 'Definitely not.'  
My guardian shrugged. 'It might be good for you to go out. Be around people your own age.'  
It was time to deploy my most efficient method to avoid topics I dislike: walking away.  
'Then let me go out,' I smirked. 'And as I am the same age as myself, I'll be around people my own age, too.' Before Sam could react, I sprinted to my room.

After changing into my workout clothes – shorts and a tank top –, I put in earbuds and let music fill my ears. Running never failed to calm me down. I didn't get tired easily, so sometimes I ran for hours on end without realising it. I was happy for the immense woods in which I could jog, without people staring at me or annoying me. So, today, like I had done many times before, I let myself absorb the sound of the music while my mind went blank. My heart beat steadily. My blood flowed rapidly. My feet stomped regularly against the soft dirt.  
Just running, only running.


	2. Chapter 2

'It's been a week, a freaking week!' I exclaimed while punching the punching bag as hard as I could. Didn't he know what day it was? Harder and harder I hit, until my arms were tired and a layer of sweat covered my entire body. Not a single text. I had stared at my phone willing it to buzz, to light up with kind or stern words of my father. They say a pot on the stove won't boil while you're looking at it, perhaps the same goes for phones receiving messages. Because I had not gotten one. Not even today…  
Sure, Nat had send some shady messages, unclear about when they would return; they probably didn't have a clue themselves about when they'd be able to come back. Still, even her subtle recommendations to have patience and be safe had driven me nuts. Of course I'd be safe – is what I would have said on any other day. Today, however, that wasn't an option; I had to get out.

Wearing my favourite black hoody and no jacket (I'd be doing some stuff a jacket would obstruct me from doing), I sneaked out of the house. The sun hadn't dawned yet, giving the forest a slightly spooky appearance with its fog and cloudy sky. I had no problem passing Sam's closed bedroom door dressed in conspicuous clothing; Sam trusted me enough to think I wouldn't leave on my own. Unless he had realised what day it was, then he would have never been so trusting.

Using an old blanket, I climbed over the high fence, not wanting the cameras at the gate to catch me sneaking off and perhaps setting off alarms. There, I left the blanket slung across the fence for my return. Then I began making my way through the forest.  
It was still a bit cold due to a chilly wind running through the trees. Even though it didn't bother me, I did feel the subtle icy chills of morning. The leaves were covered by a thin layer of moisture; a residue from the thick fog. The last bits of fog gave the air a pleasant cooling effect on my angry hot face.  
When I came by a beautiful meadow filled with all kinds of flowers, I slowed down. With my head tilted, I studied the sea of colours amidst the brown and green of trees. I should bring one, I decided. The most beautiful one I could find.  
Thus I gently strolled through the fragile flora, careful not to step on a single one of them, holding them aside if they left no space for feet. Quickly, the tips of my fingers were covered in dusty pollen.  
It was pretty amazing this field still bloomed; it wouldn't last any longer, though even now all the flowers should've been gone. Still, it was even more beautiful in spring.

I plucked the most beautiful flower I could find, holding it gently while I continued my journey. It was a poppy - deep red with a dark centre. It had stood out between all the lighter flowers, with gentle pedals, easily broken. This one was fierce, with an almost dangerous beauty. I couldn't help but feel attracted towards it; it seemed out of place between the others.  
Flowers on mother's day, at least that part was normal, I thought. Maybe I could just pretend I was getting her breakfast in bed. Yes, that was nice. A hardboiled egg, croissants or other delicious pastries, some toast, a freshly squeezed glass of orange juice… I smiled melancholy, wishing with all my heart it could be real.

Finally, I exited the forest near the cemetery and carefully opened the squeaking fence. I watched the rusted hinges, which seemed too old to be even working anymore. They had been old when we first came here, my father carrying the coffin on his shoulder. At the time I had been quite little. Natasha had held me, while my father's friends helped him carry the heavy weight. I could still see dad's agony, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. As a little girl I had been shocked to see my father like this; he'd always been this incredibly strong being. He was my hero, even though I wasn't aware of his official title yet.  
Since then, I had visited many times. If I wanted to, I could probably find her stone even without looking, that's how often I had come here, and how well my memory worked.  
'Hey, mom,' I said quietly when I finally reached the remote, white stone. Even in this lush, almost forest-like yard, it sat in a particularly bushy part.  
I sank to my knees, folding my legs underneath me. 'I brought you this.' I held up the flower and put it against the stone. With careful motions I made sure it looked perfect, in a way _I_ never could. "Isabelle Rogers" read the letters engraved into the hard stone. 'Happy mother's day… sorry, dad isn't here, he's got to save the world, again…' I sighed. 'Yeah, _I know_ , that's more important… but I wish he would be home for once!  
'I was so little, mom, so I don't really know you…' I looked at my hands and shifted my weight, until I sat cross-legged. 'But I do miss you. I miss having this normal mommy-daddy-daughter thing. I can't remember dad being away this often then… Now he always closes himself off… _Sure_ I have Sam, but that doesn't make up for the fact _dad_ never talks to me!'  
I plucked little grass blades from the earth and ripped them apart. It was so easy, for the grass had long, thin lines along which you could tear the green apart. Its own structure made it vulnerable.  
After a long silence, in which I heard rustling of trees, scuttling animals and the call of a lonely bird, I looked up. 'You know what, mom? I'll find it out myself! He made me promise I wouldn't look him up on the internet, but he never said I couldn't go to a museum, did he?'  
To make it easier, I left out the part where he had made me promise I wouldn't go somewhere on my own without his permission. With both hands pressed to the ground I got up. I touched the stone gently, before I turned around and left that place of depression.

Silently, I sneaked back into the house and collected a backpack with some water and food, my wallet and phone. For a moment I wondered whether I should bring my phone, knowing all too well it was Stark made, which made it fully traceable. Ultimately, I decided I wouldn't risk that much, going somewhere without anyone able to find me. You never know what could happen…

When the bus arrived at the lonely bus stop more than a mile away from our home, I bought a ticket to DC and sat down in quite a fully packed bus. Shortly, I wondered about the large amount of people already on the road, before I yet again began listening to my music.  
All the early birds sat quietly, minding their own business. Many were preoccupied by their phones, scrolling down page after page of online content. I was looking thoughtlessly through the window myself, seeing the world pass by. I sat like that for quite some time, letting all the thoughts evaporate the moment they came into existence, until my phone buzzed urgently.  
To be honest, my heart shrunk a little before I unlocked my phone; even though I had firmly decided to not feel any remorse about betraying Sam's trust, I did feel a slight tinge of guilt. Ignoring the pinprick, I fastened myself against the fierce force of angry text message.

 _YOU ARE IN SO MUCH TROUBLE!  
WHERE ARE YOU?  
I'M PICKING YOU UP!  
I'VE TOLD YOUR FATHER ABOUT THIS!_

I sighed; of course he had. But, with some luck dad was somewhere in Europe, or Asia, or Africa. Maybe even the north pole; nothing would surprise me anymore.  
Before responding to the tidal wave of letters in caps, I amused myself with the image of my dad huddling between polar bears.

 _Relax.  
I'm just going for a ride…  
I'm going to spend some quality time with my father_

My phone kept quiet for only a very short while. I imagined Sam struggling to keep his calm just enough to send a reply.

 _YOU ARE IN DC?  
I'M COMING NOW!  
STAY OUTSIDE THE SMITHSONIAN  
I'M COMING!_

Sighing, I put away my phone. I was going to be in so much trouble. However, at the moment I didn't care. I just wanted to get out of the house, do something by myself. And finally know something about my father.


	3. Chapter 3

Suddenly, I hear a shrieking sound, even through my sound-cancelling earbuds. I look up in surprise. A giant truck appears from the right, heading right at us, clearly unable to stop. Its breaks are crying out, definitely not working – the truck is going to crush us.  
Without thinking, I stand up, my legs working on their own. I jump towards the chauffeur – curl my fingers around the wheel, yanking it around. Instantly, the wheels of the bus shriek, cry out. People cry out. The bus swerves – I look back; the truck is still coming.  
I look at the people sitting in the back of the bus, who definitely will be crushed. I rush towards those frozen in fear. I grab them, hauling them off their seats as the bus topples over.  
I jump, pulling a heavy weight.  
I fall down as the bus topples over.  
I hit my head, hard.  
The world goes dark.

'Jay? Jay, can you hear me?'  
Somebody carefully padded my body, as if they were checking my pockets for drugs. I moaned. 'Let me sleep…'  
'Damn it, Jay! The hell I won't!'  
Slowly I opened my eyes, and smirked at Sam. 'Why-' my annoyed groan was cut off by a eardrum-splitting siren. I moaned - more deeply now. My eyes nearly rolled back, but with some effort I remained conscious.  
I noticed the wreckage around me, and the noise, and my headache. There was the penetrating smell of burning rubber, along with failing engines and smoke and fire. Accompanying it were the sounds of sirens, panic and shock. Underneath my body was hard asphalt, while every nerve ending in it was screaming. Sluggishly my brain started to remember. 'Oh…'  
Sam glared at me every time he noticed I was watching him, though when he thought I wasn't looking, he seemed incredibly worried.  
I felt bad. I hated myself for doing what I had done, but I was also mad at the universe for making one of my stupid moves turn into a catastrophe. All teenagers do stupid stuff, I thought. I've heard tales of people sneaking off in the middle of the night to go to some weird party, taking whatever substances they can find and almost getting caught by their parents. But I had to be in an immense accident the moment I finally did something my father had forbidden me to do.

Strangers put me on a stretcher and moved me into an ambulance, while Sam never left my side. He even helped them take care of me; he hadn't been with the search and rescue unit for nothing.  
An intense headache started to spread and it seemed my adrenaline rush had worn off, for my ribs started to ache as well. When I saw Sam check his phone, I frowned. 'You're texting dad, aren't you?'  
'Oh, yes, I am.'  
I groaned, not even because of the pain, just the sheer knowledge of what was about to happen. 'Shit. He's gonna kill me…'

Luckily, the hospital bed was reasonable comfortable, with clean white sheets and a fluffy pillow. The doctor told me pretty quickly I seemed fine, save for a mild concussion and a lot of painful but harmless bruises. They also told me it was a miracle, that my skull should have been split open and my ribs cracked (well, they used nicer words, though the message was clear). Immediately, I knew it wasn't luck; it had been my father's genes finally doing their job. I knew I should have been hurt more badly during the impact, but some of the worst pain had already subsided.  
Actually, I pitied I wasn't hurt worse, because dad would now have no reason not to be angry with me or go easy on me.

The moment my father came into the hospital room, it was almost like he brought an arctic wind with him. Even Natasha, who followed him in his furious strides, looked angry.  
'Jaylin Rylee Rogers!' he spoke angrily while he stomped towards me. His fists were clenched, and his brows nearly morphed into a unibrow. 'How could you ever be so idiotic! I thought you were more responsible than this! I thought you had some commons sense! Sadly it appears I was wrong.'  
It didn't end there; he gave me an immense speech, and I had no choice but to sit it through. His anger didn't do me much; it was the disappointed look in his eyes whenever he faced me directly that hurt, the sadness underneath the fury.  
I knew why, of course; I had made this annually bad day even worse. While I had only wanted to- whatever, I didn't even know what I had wanted to accomplish. I had only brought my father more trouble. Yet, I was mad at him too, for it had been him who had forced me into desperate - and stupid - action. So when he finally finished his speech, I only glared at him, not wanting to admit fault.  
My jaw was locked, nowhere near letting out an apology. There was a pulsing headache at my temple, though I didn't care. I watched as Sam took dad out of the room, mouthing to me I should apologise. I shook my head vigorously.

'You know,' Nat began slowly when both men were out of sight, 'Steve's right, you did something incredibly stupid.'  
I huffed. The abrupt motion generated a new flare of pain through my chest. 'I saved a bus full of people! Had he rather have those people dead?'  
Natasha sighed. The anger I had seen before subsided and was replaced by a strange sort of sadness. 'He doesn't want you to save people, Jay. He wants you to have a normal, safe live, not the life full of pressure he has.'  
Shaking my head, I pulled the blanket closer. 'He should have messaged me today. You know what day it is, right?'  
'He wanted to surprise you by coming back,' Natasha smiled sadly.  
'Oh…'  
Silence lingered for a while. Natasha checked all the equipment around me before she spoke again. Her slender fingers traced the tube coming from my arm. 'He's going to send you to the tower.'  
'What?!' I exclaimed. My heart filled with ice cold horror. The Tower, Stark tower, a.k.a. my personal prison.  
He'd done that before. Once, when I was nine years old. I had stolen Sam's wings, and dad had sent me there, so there was always someone to look after me. Those three weeks I had almost gone mad; I tried to escape more than daily, but there was always someone stronger or faster than me to stop me. And it didn't matter how much they liked me, "little miss America",- it was probably why they were all so overprotective of me - they would not grant me freedom. Maddening, I tell you, maddening.  
'Why?'  
'You were filmed, Jay.' Someone seemed to have knocked the life out of Natasha. Her shoulders slumped, her hands hung limp next to her body. 'Somehow someone filmed it and put it online. We tried to take it down as quickly as possible, of course, but a lot of people have seen it. Right now, the Tower is the safest place for you.'  
Filmed. On the internet. For the world to see.  
I could already imagine the comments: _Freak! Should be locked up! Weirdo_. Was that what I got for helping people? My freedom taken away, just because I tried to take some more.  
'I'm sorry mom,' I muttered very quietly, my eyes turned towards the ceiling, after Nat had left the room. How had I screwed up this badly?


	4. Chapter 4

It didn't take my body very long to recover, though it took a couple more days for the doctors to let me go - apparently they didn't really believe I could've healed this quickly. When they finally accepted I wasn't like normal people, I was escorted out with Sam on one side and dad on the other. The latter was still frowning and didn't talk much while he drove me back home. I pitied I had to sit next to him, though I didn't feel much for having to sit next to Sam; it was him whom I had sneaked off from.  
After the car had reached the familiarity of our home grounds, dad waited in the kitchen while Sam guided me to my room, where I packed my clothes into a suitcase, and my sketchbooks, art supplies, laptop and other personal stuff into my backpack.  
'I'm sorry, Sam,' I said while folding shirts. My stomach felt heavy, like it had been the last couple days, filled with guilt and shame. Gentle footsteps approached, and he came to stand beside me, helping me fill the bag. 'I hope dad wasn't too hard on you… I didn't think-' I wasn't sure how to finish that sentence.  
'Well, that was obvious,' Sam noted. His voice was calm, making it difficult to judge his mood.  
I laughed humourlessly. 'True. But I didn't want to get you into trouble, Sam.'  
'Wait, what?' Sam stopped folding and turned me towards him. His dark eyes pierced mine. 'That's not why I am mad at you, Jay. You brought yourself in danger, you did incredibly stupid things. I don't care if Steve got mad at me. That's the least t I care about.'  
'But I don't want all of you worrying about me,' I complained quietly. It sounded awfully like a little child's statement.  
Sam laughed, his eyes turning soft. 'I think it's too late for that, Jay.'

The essential parts of my belongings were loaded in the trunk of the car while I waited inside, dread building inside me. Eventually the wheels came into motion, and looking back at our beautiful wooden place, I wondered whether I would see it again.

'If it isn't our little hero,' Tony announced sarcastically when I stepped out of the elevator. The whole way up, whilst in the glass cage leading up to my doom, I had prayed I'd just be able to sneak to my room, not having to face any of the residents of the Tower. Sadly, Tony seemed to have been awaiting my arrival.  
'Shut up, Tony,' I grumbled when I walked past. I wasn't in a good mood, partly because the ride there had been filled with one hell of a silence, loaded enough even for Sam (who was usually played the little bridge of the Rogers' family) not to try to break it.  
Dad hadn't been particularly angry, more filled with a kind of simmering frustration. I, on the other hand, was mad, very mad, for I did not want to be locked up in a Tower. And even though I didn't wish for a prince to save me, I'd appreciate it if somebody busted me out - preferably someone with, you know, good intentions.  
Tony leaned against the wall, a little smirk forming on his lips. 'I thought I might tell you my suit is still afraid of you.' His amused expression annoyed me even more, though at least he didn't seem judgemental.  
'One time Tony, I swear, I just wanted to try it!' I threw my hands up in exasperation and glared at the billionaire.  
Tony crossed his arms, tilting his head. 'It took me three whole days to fix it!'  
I stuck out my tongue, and Tony grinned in response.

In a very bad mood, I yanked my suitcase with me and I dropped it against the nearest couch in a very aggravated way. With my hood pulled down to my nose, I lay down and pretended to fall asleep. People bustled around me, somebody moved my suitcase away and others carried stuff around.  
After I had lain there for a while, all curled up in a steaming ball of displeasure, I actually drifted off. I wasn't exactly sure if I'd napped or slept, but when I awoke there was a hush of low voices speaking.  
'You've seen it?' That was Sam. He spoke quietly and with worry in his words.  
'Of course. She was fast, _really_ fast.' Tony was the one Sam was talking to, and he sounded both amazed and troubled.  
'That's why Steve's so worried,' Sam pointed out. 'He never thought she would have so much of him in her, not physically. She seemed quite, you know, "normal",' he delivered the word as if it were a cuss, 'until now, that is.'  
My right hand felt numb. Tiny prickling balls rolled up and down my arm, but I couldn't move. There was no way I could change position without notifying the speakers I was awake. And that would, without a doubt, not be a good thing; I'd have to talk to them, trying to lie and say I hadn't overheard them. Also, I would probably start arguing with them to let me go, for it wasn't fair I was held captive for saving some asses. So, I'd just have to ignore my limbs turning into limp stumps of meat and muscle.  
'Maybe it was a onetime thing, adrenaline rush,' Tony mused. 'Though that would mean she shouldn't experience any more stress.'  
'Why do you think she's here? Steve's trying to figure something out, and in the meantime we have to make sure she stays in.'  
"We have to make sure she stays in." Sounded as if they were already prepared for a fight. Well, as Sam so obviously knew telling from the tone of his voice, I was _not_ giving up.  
'You know, I always wondered what her genes look like, how being half human and half super soldier affected her DNA.'  
'She's no lab rat,' Sam snarled. This anger war pretty uncharacteristic – usually he was the one staying calm at all times.  
'That's not what I meant,' Tony said hastily. He, too, sounded pretty shocked.  
'Yeah, I know. Sorry, man. It's just… we tried to keep her away from this world, you know? I hoped she could have a peaceful life, anonymously and safe.'  
Tony snorted bitterly. 'If your father is head deep into this world, I doubt it is possible to stay out of it.'  
'Guess you're right.' Sam sounded tired, and I imagined him rubbing his eyes.  
Tony cleared his throat, moving in his seat, which squeaked. 'She's gonna hate it here, she needs freedom.' He let out a dry laugh. 'Typical.'  
'Yes, she will,' Sam agreed warily. 'But for now, I think her safety is more important than her being "free".' Sam didn't laugh, not even in an unamused manner.

A door opened, and smooth, soft footsteps closed in.  
'Hey, Steve. You okay?'  
'I'm alright, Sam, thank you. I think her room is ready; I tried to make it look a bit like home…' he sighed heavily, 'I don't know what to do. I should have known she shouldn't be alone, not today…'  
'Steve, it's not your fault.'  
'Who's is it, then?' He sighed again, and I heard him come closer. Quickly I concentrated on relaxing my body. 'I can still remember the little girl who didn't know she was different. She used to be so proud she could beat all the boys in football. Now she's being dragged into this world…' Suddenly I felt him pick me up and carry me. A shudder almost went down my spine when I, too, remembered that little girl. How I wished I could be her again.  
Dad put me in my bed and tucked me in. The soft blanket hugged me tight and I sank down into the fluffy pillows. 'Good night,' he whispered and kissed my forehead. I wanted to hug him so badly, but I couldn't, as he would know I had heard them talk. Silently cursing myself and the world, I fell yet again asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

'Good morning, sunshine!'  
I growled. I had now been in the Tower for a week and a half now, during which dad had had to leave yet again to finish up some loose ends from his former mission. (You know, the one I made him come back from.) Mostly, it was Sam who had taken care of me, as Tony had resided in his workplace the majority of the time, working on heavens knows what kind of project. Could be literally anything - the only thing I knew, was that he was working on it 24/7.  
'I. Need. To. Get. Out.' I rested my head upon the kitchen table. 'I. Am. Going. Mad.' To emphasise the urgency behind my words, I banged my head up and down.  
'Don't ruin that smart head of yours,' Sam said affectionately, patting me on the head. 'Here's breakfast.'  
I looked up and saw a bowl of milk and chocolate cornflakes right in front of my nose. Usually, food was a good way to cheer me up. Now, however, I was too frustrated to eat. 'Please, Sam! Can't you get me out? Can't you tell dad I have to get out?' I not only pleaded with my words, but also with my eyes.  
He shook his head. 'You know I can't, Jay.'  
'Then be merciful!' I cried out dramatically, pretending to lay my head on a guillotine. 'Just kill me already!'  
Sam chuckled and sat down beside me, opening the newspaper. Apparently he didn't think he should answer to that.  
As I got up again, I glared at the pictures on the front page. They all seemed to grin down at me in delight at my agony. Desperately, I tried to come up with a reason persuasive enough to convince dad. 'Can't you say I have to finish school or something?'  
The paper rustled when its page was turned. 'You've got Tony Stark here, who needs teachers? Besides, you haven't really seem eager to do schoolwork.'  
I groaned frustrated. 'What about a life? What about other people? Normal people?' I winced at my own words. They were cruel, even though I also meant myself. Besides, it was actually a pretty bad argument, for I never interacted much with the people at school. Something which had always frustrated Sam, who had always stimulated me to make some friends. Dad too, of course, but he wasn't really a people person either, so he couldn't tell me to socialise at school, when I was pretty sure he'd never done that when he still had to sit at the wooden desks inside the classrooms all day.  
The gleeful faces crumpled when the paper was brought down to the wooden surface. 'You could, always…' Sam began slowly, 'ask him if you could go to that gala I mentioned earlier. It's masked, so no one would recognise you.' He proposed it thoughtfully, as if he was just thinking of it. But something in his tone told me he had been thinking about this for a very long time.  
Before really thinking it through, I wanted to object, until I realised it was actually a pretty good idea: dad would never keep me from gong to a party with other kids if I said I needed their company. It would be a lie, of course, but I'd do anything to get out.

Later on I could barely believe I had convinced dad. However, I could have never done it without the others. I just pleaded with everyone in the Tower to get them on my side. Tony had risen his eyebrows, wondering why I wanted to hang around those teenagers – he said he had never gotten the impression I'd really liked them. I'd shrugged, and he had grinned; he had known exactly why I had asked him to back me up. And it had nothing to do with my desire to be among my contemporaries.  
Natasha had gone along with it, understanding me like she always did, knowing it would bring me some peace and it would shut me up for a while. She just told me to consider this well.  
Sam, naturally, had come up with the idea, though I didn't think dad needed to know that; Sam had only done it to help me. Besides, the more people around him started supporting me, the less he seemed sure about his own idea.  
'You're not backing out, are you?' I enquired, when I'd just gotten Natasha's blessing.  
Sam shrugged. 'No… I don't think so…' his eyes seemed to tell otherwise. 'Just be careful, okay, Jay? If there's anything suspicious, call us. Anything out of the ordinary…'  
'Like myself?' I taunted.  
The caretaker just sighed and smiled troubled. 'Just look out.'

Three (four, with myself included) to one had done the trick. Dad wasn't happy about it – not at all – but he let me go. I didn't even know why I wanted it so badly. Probably just because this way I could do what I wanted. Kind of childish, if I thought about it.  
Well, it was too late to doubt it now. Natasha had already helped me get dressed, into a fantasy-inspired red dress, with long, wide sleeves and a slim body. My shoulders were bare and the dress itself was of a rather simple design. The top half of my face was covered by a black, catlike mask, completing the look. Usually, I wasn't the kind of girl who had the patience to even think about what I was wearing (with patience I also mean I was too lazy to care, actually), but this made me feel like I belonged in a movie or fairy tale. I looked like a character I could have drawn myself; perhaps a dark elf, or an elegant vampire. If I stared at my reflection for long enough, my mind would instinctively create a storyline for myself, in which I would roam the great plains of places like Middle Earth or Narnia.  
'The boys won't know what killed them,' Natasha smiled proudly. She pulled the brush through my hair one last time, trying to perfect my look. It went through smoothly, leaving my hair a smooth, slightly waving curtain of blondness.  
More than I would admit, I had enjoyed the pampering. It was a kind of attention I wasn't used to. Yet, it had been so easy for me to go along with Natasha as she animated my excitement, or laugh along as she put on dark make-up around my eyes to "make the blue stand out" and give me a more mysterious look.  
'No they won't,' I grinned back.  
Nat helped me get into the car, made sure the hem of my dress didn't get caught in the door, and seated herself beside me. Dad drove us to the building the ball was held. It was an older, castle like mansion, with great halls, build for events like these. The stone walls spoke of royalty and grand feasts, riches and wealth. I suspected somebody at school must be on very good terms with one of the owners, or else extremely rich. There was no way the school could pay for such a location.

I watched nervously as dad walked around the car to open the door. The gravel crunched underneath his shoes. He helped me get out, a tense smile on his lips. The tension was still noticeable between us and conflict was visible in his eyes, but he was trying to be happy for me. 'Have fun,' he said quietly. His fair hair contrasted with the dark sky above us, and it wavered in a soft, chilly breeze.  
Letting go of my father's hand, I let my lashes cloud my vision. 'I'll try.' Steadily, I started walking away, a really strong feeling of impending doom in my stomach. Stones or even lead churned inside me. The air lay heavily on my skin. I grasped the thick fabric of my skirt so it wouldn't slither through dirt or mud. There was still a great distance to be crossed; dad had parked the car quite far from the entrance. Blurred shadows crossed behind the windows, letting their excited voices be heard. An owl let out a lonely coo.  
'Jaylin?' Dad called out.  
'Yes?' I called back, turning around. Suddenly, something flickered in the moonlight. My brain froze, while my body reacted faster than I could have ever imagined. I ran. I jumped. I collided with dad's body while I pushed him to the ground. A sharp pain hit me in the side, and I cried out.  
'Jaylin!' Dad yelled desperately, somewhere near or somewhere close. I couldn't see him, I only saw the starry sky as my vision blurred and the pain pushed me away from reality. I heard gunfire, grunts, people yelling, wreckage – all the while I was sinking deeper and deeper into darkness.  
Rough hands grasped me, cold fingers digging into my arms. My body was pulled away. Harsh gravel dug into my back, bruising my skin which was only protected by the sheer cloth of my dress. Pain kept worsening, demanding my body to go limp. A car, I was dragged into a car. Before I could protest or struggle, an engine roared, and I was taken away.


	6. Chapter 6

Thump. Thump. Thump.  
A steady walk was swaying me softly back and forth. My head bobbed up and down on the rhythm of the footsteps. Dad was carrying me. Had I fallen asleep on the couch again? I really needed to stop doing that; it tended to leave me with aching muscles whenever I woke up.  
But no, dad always held me like I was made of glass. The hands currently gripping me were unforgiving, not caring if I was in pain. Hands grasping me… my heart skipped beat. I remembered a dark sky with ferocious glaring stars, and those same hands gripping me, dragging me… above all, the pain in my stomach, which still prevailed.  
Who was this person, who could creep up on both Captain America and Black Widow, and who could fight them off long enough to take me with him? Even more importantly; why hadn't he killed me yet? It was by far the easiest solution. Why take me?

As my brains began working, I started to move - or actually, I tried. Nothing happened. My body wouldn't work. Panic filled my chest, gripping my heart with fear. Was I paralysed, or had he drugged me? Neither option sounded good.  
Even though my mouth was empty, it felt stuffed with cotton, thick and dry, obstructing me from speaking. I tried to scream, but only muffled sounds came out. My captor didn't react. He put me on some kind of bed or table, and when he bent over me, I could finally see him. Or actually, still not quite, because he was wearing a muzzle - covering most of his face - and goggles - covering his eyes. The only visible characteristic was his dark, chin length hair.  
Something reflective flickered in the dark. My eyes widened when I realised he was holding a scalpel. 'Hnnnn! Hnnnn!' I still tried to move, to scream, to get away from the shiny blade. The man looked at me, even though I couldn't see his eyes. 'Hnnnnn!'  
He looked away again, then he was back, his hand up, holding a syringe. The needle blinked in dim light. A quick, sharp pain – the world started to fade away.

Darkness grew faint. Dim fluorescent lights mounted in the ceiling spread a cold light around a bare room, with concrete walls and floor, and nothing more than the bed I was laying on. Everything was a dark shade of brownish grey. Only the dress I was wearing had some colour, as if it had absorbed all other colours in the room. Around my waist was a long, white bandage, where my dress was almost completely cut in half. The white of the bandage was dazzling in the cold white of the bare lights. I rubbed my eyes, instantly regretting it; they started to sting instantly. When I withdrew my hands, they were smudged with some sort of black substance - right… the makeup. I blinked rapidly in order for my eyes to fill with tears, and I carefully tried to remove at least some of the cosmetics, so it wouldn't find its way back into my eyes again.

To prepare myself for more pain, I took a couple gulps of air. It was cold and musty, almost dead. It absolutely wasn't the oxygen rich air I needed most, but it would have to do.  
I moaned and tried to get up. It wasn't easy, and it hurt like hell, but eventually I managed, though I had to press my hand firmly to my bandaged side.  
Making my way around the room, my torso twisted at a weird angle in an attempt to avoid any more agony, I checked for air vents or maybe something else able to help me get out. Even in the darkest corners I bent down, causing myself to gasp in pain, desperate to find something of use.  
However, no such luck. Nothing special was found while I dragged my shaking hands across the rough concrete, only the thin lines and holes which made up the texture of the material were encountered by my sensitive skin. Completely frustrated I punched the wall, scraping my own knuckles. Minuscule drops of blood welled up between the damaged skin. I spilled just a bit more blood. Well done.  
Even this short exploration had taken all the breath from me. My hands pressed against the concrete. It wasn't enough support; I leaned forwards with my head against the same rough material. Now I wondered how long I had been in here. It couldn't have been that long, right? The bullet wound still ached, even though the man had probably gotten it out. Knowing my healing abilities, I at least couldn't have been asleep for more than a day; thankfully not a week or more, held unconscious on drugs.

Suddenly, I heard movement behind the door. I stiffened, pushed my back against the wall and made my way for the door, in such a way someone wouldn't be able to see me when they'd enter. The door opened and when the dark silhouette stepped inside, I rushed past – or so I had hoped. A hand - cold, and stronger than humanly possible - grabbed my arm, yanking me back. I yelped, falling to the ground.  
The man said something in another language- I recognised the Russian. I wasn't really sure what he said exactly due to my plunge down, but thanks to Natasha I understood the message: "trying to escape is useless". In his eyes I clearly had already lost.  
'We'll see about that,' I grunted as I got up. I glared at him, while the world was spinning around me. Even the floor had turned into a sea of waving concrete. 'We will see about that.'  
The man didn't speak again. He just took a couple of confident steps forwards, pushed me to the bed, forced me to lay down, and started unwrapping the bandage.

I couldn't stand his mechanical way of behaving, like he was a robot. I could see his hand and forehead, those were human. His metal arm, not really. It was pretty cool, though, advanced and probably nothing short from an well-oiled killing machine. If he wasn't holding me captive, I'd be very interested. Now, with my life and the lives of my family on the line, not so much.  
Maybe if I talk to him, I thought, I can make him realise he's human, and I'm human too. And that I'm just a girl, somebody you don't lock up in a concrete prison! It was quite hopeless. Yet, it was all I could think of.  
'Yeah, you did kind of ruin you mission,' I said light-heartedly. 'If I was your mission, that is. Usually they say dead or alive, and when they want an animal alive, they want it unhurt. Now I probably lost a lot of my worth. Sorry.'  
The man didn't react at all, as if he didn't hear me, and went on checking the wound, after which he applied new bandages.  
'I usually don't let boys so close to me, you know,' I remarked. 'But well, you've shot me, so you're kinda special. Plus, you have to fix me.'  
No response. He just tightened the bandages, and started walking away.  
'Wait!' I called out, standing up with a grimace on my face. 'Can I use the bathroom, please?'

He led me through a narrow hallway, holding my arm tightly in his metal grip. I got the feeling we were underground, but that didn't help much; you could build a concrete tunnel system wherever you wanted to. The bathroom was small, without windows or any other type of exit besides the door my guard was standing behind. When I reopened the door, the man had taken off the goggles – which I could understand as the hallways were very dimly lit.  
His incredibly blue eyes startled me; they were cold, empty, unforgiving, emotionless. I looked him deep into the eyes, trying to discover _some_ feeling, _some_ humanity, but he only grabbed my arm again and pulled back to my cell. The door slammed shut, and I was alone.


	7. Chapter 7

Crouching down on the bed, my legs pulled towards my chest, I stared at the bolted metal door. Cold claws clamped my heart as I thought about dad and Natasha. How were they? I had painful proof I stopped the first bullet from hitting dad, but somehow this dark man had gotten past both Captain America and Black Widow, two people famous for their fighting skills. It meant he was good, very good.  
I had personally felt his strength, in both his metal and his normal arm, and I had experienced his fast reflexes up close. The only words I had heard him speak were Russian, which made me wonder if it was someone from Natasha's past. Naturally, there were enough former acquaintances that wanted some form of revenge on her. Though that wouldn't explain why they'd taken me, that seemed something only an enemy of my father would do.

I waited for the man to reappear, so I could interrogate him. Seeing my position, though, it would be more of a polite inquiry.  
'Why am I here?' I demanded immediately, when the door opened and the man came through with a plate of shady looking food and a glass of water in his hands. 'Why do you keep me alive, why don't you just kill me?'  
Good job, Jay, I thought, bringing your enemy on ideas like that. Perhaps he's just stupid and doesn't realise he can kill me.  
There was no reaction. The dark figure disappeared and the door swung shut. I inspected the food. It was bread. A dry, hard lump of bread. Should I eat it? My stomach told me I should, though I hesitated. There could be poison in it, I thought. But then, why go through all the effort to then kill me with a piece of stale bread?  
When the bread and the water had travelled down my oesophagus, I felt some of my powers return. Not nearly enough to come up with some unexpectedly brilliant plan to defeat my foe, but enough for my double sight to disappear. Next I slept. Just before I fell asleep, I decided I would try to overpower him. If only I could manage to slip past him, I thought. If I managed that, I had a chance to escape, or at least find a way to signal dad. Then he could come and save me.

My heart was pounding so loudly, I was starting to fear it may be heard on the other side of the wall. From where he could come any moment now, I thought, clenching my fists. Right through that door. Sleeping had done me good. I didn't need the wall to keep me upright anymore. Now, I stood there, waiting, my knees still wobbling slightly.  
Did I hear footsteps? I listened intently while holding my breath. Yes, someone was at the door. I attacked the moment the door swung open.  
First, I kicked him in the chest - not sure if I would make any impact - while simultaneously trying to hit him in the jaw. The moment my leg kicked upwards, it felt like my body tore apart, but I willed it to go on with its movement. My foot hit, though not nearly as forcefully as I had hoped. My fist was blocked, as I had expected. I ducked down, tried to slip past him. An arm hit me in the chest and threw me back. I hit the wall with immense force, my lungs being rid from all air.  
Gasping, I tried to get up, one hand on my stomach. My fingers felt wet. Looking down, I saw redness, a red stain growing quickly. I looked up again. The man was coming closer.  
'Stay there!' I hissed. He was constantly slipping in and out of focus. The man didn't listen and steadily approached. 'Stay there!' I repeated, louder now. Leaning against the wall, I got up, clenching my stomach. The blood was coming through the bandage. It almost seemed like part of my dress.  
'I will fight you!' I tried to yell – it was no more than a whisper. 'I- I could do this…' more pain, I gasped again, 'all day…'  
Darkness was coming for me – this time I wouldn't let it win. I squinted, and beads of sweat were rolling down my face. Little pearly beads, as a result of the thousands of wasps stinging my stomach.  
'Come- Come on, then!' I dared him. There was so much more I longed to say, but couldn't. No energy was left in my system, and my body wanted to shut down my brains, so I wouldn't have to cope with the immense pain anymore.  
Just as something flickered in his eyes, I collapsed - he caught me, immediately taking me to the bed. 'Stay,' he commanded, in Russian. This time I understood him without effort, as this was something Natasha had instructed me many times when I was a child. He left me, returning seconds later with a box of medical supplies.  
He cut loose the bandages, and started working immediately. The blood didn't faze him one bit. Logically, of course. By this time, I had figured he was an assassin, so it would be quite a joke if he was squeamish about blood.  
He took a needle. Just before he touched my skin, I gripped his wrist. He looked at me, and I swore I saw traces of surprise in his eyes. 'No, I wanne-' I drew in a shivering breath. 'I first want to know, what did you do to my father, and Natasha? Are they… alive?'  
I thought he wouldn't answer me, just swat my hand away. Probably just take another syringe to shut me up. He didn't. Instead, he answered me, very slowly, again in Russian, 'The man and woman aren't dead. Obtaining you was my mission.'  
Releasing him, I breathed out, letting my head rest back. 'Thank God,' I whispered, a desperate smile forming on my face. 'Thank God.'

After he had sewn me up again – I had barely felt the needle, that's how much the wound itself hurt – I lay on my bed, my emotions a mess.  
It was an immense relief dad was alive, and Natasha too, but it accentuated my worry as to how I could be a bigger priority than taking down a threat as big as Captain America. Slowly, I started to hyperventilate, as the walls were coming closer, and the roof was coming down. Something was pressing on me. I couldn't breathe. An invisible hand was choking me, locked around my throat. I gasped, like a fish on land, hopelessly trying to feel alive again.  
How long would I have to live this way? How long until they would do to me what they had intended, when they send this man to get me? If he was only the messenger, how bad would his master be?


	8. Chapter 8

Something cold pressed against my skin. I yelped, opened my eyes, saw my dark guard above me. Momentarily I didn't understand what he was doing, fearing he might be there to strangle be - though it would be highly unlikely, seeing how he would have wasted a lot of time if my death was his ultimate goal. Then it occurred to me; just the regular check-up.  
Well, not entire regular, it turned out. Today he had brought a little bowl of water and some cloth, and he was cleaning around the wound. His human hand moved surprisingly carefully around the sensitive skin, dabbing away the blood and filth. I was too stunned to speak – comprehensively, that is. My head was spinning, and I suspected I at least had a slight concussion from the day before, when my skull had made forceful impact with the wall.  
The guard briefly glanced at me from the corner of his eyes. There was no telling if he was surprised I had woken up, or if brought along any reaction within him at all. The little shift of his eyes was all the reaction I got - which frustrated me. Naturally, I'd read how solitude over an extended period of time can literally drive one mad, but as I had never been truly alone for very long, I'd always thought solitude would bring me some sort of inner-peace. Perhaps if it had been under different circumstances - which had to include solitude by choice and knowing with absolutely certainty my family was okay and they didn't worry about me - I would enjoy some quietness. Now, however, the everlasting silence did start to, well, not drive me insane, but bring about a less severe form of madness, I suppose. The silence gave me an irresistible urge to babble, just to hear a voice.

'I know you think you are invincible,' I said softly, a bit sluggishly. I didn't even care anymore if my keeper was listening - I just had to continue talking. I simply had to. 'Just because you are stronger and faster than other people, and you always win… but there will be a day you'll lose, and there'll be nothing you can do about it.' My chest sank down again. I licked my dry lips. 'Trust me, I know. My father - the man who was with me - he's strong too. Very strong, and pretty old, actually. He's seen many things… he's fought the greatest war of the last century, which he won. And still, he can't do everything.' I swallowed, not understanding why I was talking, why I was telling the stranger this. I hadn't spoken of this for a long time, if I had really spoken about it at all. It had been like this giant lead filled bubble inside me, fighting to get out. I'd battled it for a very long time - and now, in the presence of someone who'd shot me, I was losing.  
'When my mother got sick, when her own body started attacking her, there was nothing he could do. He was left to stand by her side, and watch her die… So you may be invincible, but you can be beaten.' I chocked, remembering the immense grief on my father's face. His sloping shoulders when there had been left for him to do than to watch her disappear. How he hadn't been able to do anything. My eyes burned, as I realised dad had just lost something again. Before then I hadn't realised what this meant for him. Now I recognised this added consequence, I felt so bad, all fear subsided.  
'I'm sorry, dad,' I whispered. Salt stung my eyes. I blinked rapidly to fight away the pressure. 'I'm so, so sorry.'  
My guard swiftly looked at me, though I couldn't make out what his eyes were saying.  
Did he think me weak? Probably. Did he pity me? Probably not.  
'Yeah, I'm the one to talk, I know,' I huffed. 'I'm not really the invincible one. Though I must warn you: I don't give up, I don't give in. Whoever you are working for, tell them Jaylin Rogers won't go down that easily. Tell them, - ' I stopped and frowned. 'Gosh,' I laughed quietly. 'Hear me talk, laying down, bloody bandages around me, trying to tell you what to do, while I don't even know your name. I bet you won't tell me either.' I was rambling again. A little voice inside me warned me I was probably going crazy. Being locked up had never helped me much.  
I lay my head back again, studying the ceiling. With my mind I tried to project stars onto them - the stars dad had painted on my ceiling when I was still a baby. They were pretty stars, all different colours, on a dark sky. The moon was in the centre of it all, warmly smiling down on my resting form. It occurred to me only now, thinking back at those paintings, how my father had always stimulated me to draw, to express myself artistically. He was the one handing me the crayons, showing me how to hold my pencil better, teaching me the pleasure of art. Again, one of those things I had never said "thank you" for.  
'U menya net imeni.' I was startled by the sudden participation to what had formally been an one-sided conversation. Automatically, my brains translated the message. I have no name.  
'No name?' I repeated surprised. 'Really? That seems odd. And lonely, if I'm honest.'  
He put the cloth away, letting it float in the now brownish water, and started bandaging me again. I let myself be handled like a doll, knowing I couldn't do anything. If I tried, I would only hurt myself.  
'Oni nazyvayut menya Zimniy soldat.' They call me the winter soldier. He rose, holding the bowl with the cloth and the dirty bandages.  
As his face had risen up, I had to look up quite a bit, strewing my neck, which was sore from the poor sleeping equipment available to me. 'The Winter Soldier. That's pretty cool,' I grinned at him, 'though I'd like to just call you Winter; I never liked the word soldier.'  
He stood there like a statue, between the door and me, a strange look in his eyes. They had turned darker, stormier than before. It frustrated me that I couldn't see more of his face. What was he thinking? Why was he speaking to me?  
After a minutes long stare down from which I didn't look away, he turned away and left.


	9. Chapter 9

It was concerning how well my wound had heeled; it meant I had been in my underground prison for an awfully long time. How long exactly, I couldn't tell, but my mind thought it was a hell of a lot longer than the wound indicated.  
Winter, as I now called him, hadn't spoken to me since he had given me his "name", and he seemed fairly on edge around me. He seemed to replace my bandages when I was sleeping, which was pretty impressive, seeing how he didn't wake me up while doing so. Whenever he was near me during my waking hours, he was silent. That is, until he found me banging my head against the wall.

I hadn't heard him come in; I had been too busy groaning and telling myself how badly I needed to get out. 'What are you doing?' he asked, still in – what seemed – his native tongue.  
With my forehead still pressed against the wall, I smirked at the concrete. 'Going crazy.'  
Winter took another step towards me, standing quite awkwardly as he frowned at me. 'Why?'  
'Why?!' I huffed, turning around. Indignation made the words come out rapidly. 'Because I'm locked up with literally nothing to do! My brains are going to self-destruct!'  
Did he tilt his head curiously? 'What do you want to do?'  
'I don't know!' I exclaimed. 'Drawing, I guess.' I smirked. 'Most preferably going home, but I don't think that'll be allowed.' Simultaneously I shrugged and let my shoulders slump.  
Winter looked at me. Like always, his stare was unfathomable. After at least twenty seconds, he left. He barely locked to door behind him, as if he was in a hurry. He returned shortly with a stack of yellowy paper and a scrubby old pencil.  
I raised my eyebrows. 'Okay, that's new. Though I think you're right giving me this; it would be a shame if after all the trouble you've gone through, my head just explodes.' I smiled slyly, even though in my heart I was truly grateful for this, a way to keep my mind off current events.  
I felt so stupid for not trying to escape, but it wouldn't work. I had already tried more than once, and both attempts had ended badly. The only thing left was to wait, until I had a plan, or something I could do. Know the weakness to their plan, or this base. I just had to wait.  
Against my expectations, winter didn't leave my cell. I looked at him in surprise as he positioned himself against the wall opposite me, until it dawned on me.  
'O, I get it,' I smiled, 'you have to make sure I don't do anything stupid with this,' I wiggled the pencil between my fingertips and tapped it against my temple. 'Smart.'  
I started to hum a soft lullaby, while my fingers gently wrapped around the wood encasing the graphite. How long it had been since I had held a pencil. How long it had been since I had done something I enjoyed.  
I started carefully, testing the paper and the pencil. They both weren't made for drawing, but they worked well enough. Instead of deciding what I would render onto the paper, I did what I always liked to do when my mind was too full: letting my hand draw with my mind as blank as the paper.  
A peaceful woodland appeared, with small paths between proud trees, and bushes full of berries. I got completely absorbed by the process, until I had drawn every leaf and shaded every berry. My hand cramped, and I could no longer hold the pencil.  
'Look,' I said to Winter, who was still watching me with his unfathomable eyes. 'These are the woods near my home. I used to run there, every morning. It is fenced, so it is like the only place I am allowed to be alone.' I frowned. 'Well, was. It is a wonderful place, especially in the morning, when the fog is still there. It seems so mystical, almost magical. Mostly just beautiful.' I sighed deeply. Leaning back, I studied the paper, wondering how I had never realised how truly beautiful the place was. 'I guess you'll have to take the stuff, so you can get me dinner, huh?' Winter gave me a slight nod. I handed the pencil and paper back. He took it, almost carefully.

The next day, Winter returned, with new paper and the same stumpy pencil, and we repeated the process. He watched, I drew. Then I told him about the places I had depicted. They were all places of great natural beauty where dad or Sam had taken me. It was a routine I was started to cling on to, as my anchor of sanity. At first, Winter kept his distance, observing me from a safe spot against the wall, where, after a while, his posture became less tense. Then, he stopped standing like a guard, but more like an intrigued witness.  
'There is a free spot with your name on it,' I said teasingly, looking up from the tremendously tedious job of drawing a field full of flowers - the one where I'd plucked the flower I'd taken with me when I visited my mum's grave. I gestured to the empty space next to me on the bed.  
Winter glanced from me to the place I had nodded towards.  
'Just sit down,' I smiled. 'You're always standing, that must be exhausting.' He inched a bit closer. 'Come on!' I urged. 'Just sit down already!'  
When he actually sat down beside me, leaving enough space between us so he didn't touch me, I had the odd realisation I'd ordered my kidnapper to sit with me. I had asked the man who'd shot me to come nearer.  
'Look,' I said, laying the drawing partly on his, and partly on my, knee. 'This is a meadow near my house - well, not that nearby, actually. But I pass it every time I visit my mom.' Quickly, I glanced up at Winter's blue eyes. 'Her grave,' I clarified. 'You should see it in real life, honestly,' I continued melancholy. 'The colours are beautiful. And if the sun sits exactly right, the entire meadow is bathed in golden light.' I chuckled. 'That rhymes.'

Without the sun to tell me when the day ended an a new one began, only Winter's visits were an indication how day and nights alternated. My life became a steady rhythm, with our little ritual without much variation. Until one day, when my wound had closed and started to morph into a white, jagged scar, I started with a pair of kind eyes, followed by a straight nose, a gentle smile and a face I missed.  
'Hi, dad,' I muttered quietly, as I put my hand next to his graphite face. 'I wish I could tell you I'm okay. I'm sorry for being so angry all the time… I just wanted to be free, to make my own choices…' I laughed sadly. ' You can see where that brought me. I hope you are not too worried, though I know you are. Please, if I'll never see you again…' I let out a stifled sob. One tear fell down my face and hit the paper. My throat felt like sandpaper. I didn't know what to say anymore. The thought of never seeing him again killed me.  
'Here.' I reached out the pencil and paper, so Winter could grab it. He did, but when I looked up, I saw him staring at the paper. His eyes looked clouded, and his hands were shaking. 'Winter?' I asked, but he turned around and almost flew out of the room. He left me sitting with my head in my hands, sad and confused.


	10. Chapter 10

The day had come, at last. The day Winter came to get me from my cell, not just to guide me to the bathroom - this time, he took me away. Though not before blindfolding me, which was kind of a relief; if they couldn't have me see where I was going, it meant I would live long enough to tell someone, or do something with it.  
'Not too tight, please,' I smiled nervously. I got no response, though I thought for a moment he loosened the fabric.

I was taken through what felt as draughty hallways, a quite perilous journey full of treacherous staircases I couldn't see. Winter's hand held on to my arm all the way, steadily guiding me through a maze of corridors. His grip wasn't nearly as tight as the first time he'd grasped my arms, when he'd dragged me into his car. Though it wasn't pleasant either.  
Finally, I sensed fresh air. Cold wind gusted through me, blowing away the days of dusty air I'd been inhaling. I breathed in deeply, trying to capture the feeling of a little freedom, knowing it wouldn't last long. My ears were straining to catch the slightest sound, like a bird or other living creature. A branch snapping in half would have been enough. Sadly, I seemed to be in an area without many living creatures or organisms; not that I had expected anything different.  
I was pushed into a van of some sorts, and with my hands unbound, most would wonder why I didn't run. Well, I might be blindfolded, but my ears recognised the sound of loading guns, guns that are most definitely aimed at me. Also, Winter was holding my wrists, and escaping his grip was impossible.  
After I stepped into the van, they made me sit down, with people on both sides. Winter hadn't let me go, so I knew for certain he was the one of my left; it was typical for my strange situation that the presence of this dark figure was kind of reassuring.  
We drove for hours in a shaking van, speeding over bumpy roads. At first, I didn't notice I was listening very intently. Once I noticed, I instinctively knew why: there was this little part of my heart that believed I would hear Sam's feet stomp on top of the car after swooping down with his wings, or dad just ripping the van apart. No such luck. These were skilled people; they knew exactly what they were doing.

At last, we stopped after a nauseating journey, and I was dragged from the van. I almost tripped a couple times. My ankles hurt as they twisted and stumbled. This time we didn't stop outside, but we were immediately inside an undoubtedly incredibly secure building, where there was no wind, only a faint, cold draft.  
After many hallways and staircases, I was dropped into something of a chair, my arms were gripped by metal claws, and my blindfold was removed. Around me were walls covered my electronic parts and wires in greenish tones, while there wasn't much lighting. An unknown man was looking at me, smugly.  
'Who are you?' I demanded. The man grinned. He looked respectable in expensive suit, like he should be behind a desk, not somewhere to do with the military. Perhaps make decisions about it, but not be in any proximity of it. It was not the face I had imagined; I had seen the face of a devil in my mind, someone with bulking muscles, or evil, red eyes. This was someone who'd get elected as president, I thought shocked.  
'You don't need to know. Everything you need to know is that you are our soldier now. Do you understand?'  
I glared at him. 'I don't like the word soldier,' I spat.  
'You should get used to it.' The man came closer and smacked me in the face with a flat hand. My head yanked back, and I hissed. 'I need you to do me a favour,' he said calmly. 'I need you to say just two words. "Hail" and "HYDRA". If you do that, it'll all be easier.'  
My heart froze. HYDRA? How could this be? My father had dedicated his life – before he was frozen – to destroying HYDRA. He had taken down Red Skull. Could it still exist?  
'HYDRA, you say?' I informed unimpressed. 'I thought HYDRA was German… where are your leiderhosen?'  
The man's jaw clenched, and he hit me again. 'Then we'll have to do it the hard way.' He signalled the men in lab coats. They closed in, pushing me back in the chair and forcing me to bite down on some kind of mouthpiece. All the while I kept glaring at this new threat. He just smiled.  
Suddenly metal things came down on my head. With it, hell came to earth.

The pain was unbearable, like billions of acid-covered needles dug their way into my skull, trying to rip out my brains. There was nothing left of my thoughts, nothing left of anything, only pain. My mind was crushed, dragged out through my pores, my soul was broken and blown away.  
I begged for death, as death would mean nothingness.  
I screamed, bit down on the mouthpiece, kept screaming.  
There were no words or images left in my brain, only the pain.

As suddenly as it had begun, it stopped, and I gasped. The world came slowly into focus again. There was a man. He was smiling at me. I knew someone who smiled at me. Steve was his name. But this wasn't him. Steve smiled nicely, kindly, with compassion in his eyes. This man was the devil. He had brought the pain.  
Unknown people took something from my mouth. I was still gasping. Did I taste blood?  
The man came closer. 'And, what do you say?' he asked meanly.  
I leaned in, came as close as I could. I could barely lift my face.  
'God. Bless. Captain. America.' I snarled. Again, his hand hit me in the face. This time it didn't really hurt; my body still ached from the gut-wrenching pain I had just endured.  
'Take her to her cell,' he demanded. 'She's too weak to run another session.'  
When the machine released me, someone grabbed my arms. I barely noticed it.  
They grabbed me, but it didn't hurt – they dragged me, but it felt more like carrying – they pushed me into my cell, but it felt more like lying down.  
I was staring at a concrete ceiling now. My mind was still blank. There were some images trying to rise to the surface. They couldn't come through. A thick fog had formed inside my mind.  
Suddenly I heard a crackling sound, and something black and white danced before my eyes. It was a badly wrinkled piece of paper. A man was drawn on there. It was the kindly smiling man that I had remembered. His eyes were smiling too, and seemed almost proud.  
"Hang in there," they seemed to say. "It'll be alright".  
'Otets.' A rough voice said.  
'Yes,' I whispered. 'That's my father. That's my father…' tears welled up. I didn't sob, or cry at all, because my body couldn't handle that much movement. I closed my eyes and let the tears seep down my face. 'Dad…'


	11. Chapter 11

The pain ended. At last. It seemed as if they let it go on longer and longer. Why they did it, was unknown to me. Who they were, I had no idea. I didn't even know my own name. Sometimes, though, I remembered it.  
Sometimes, I heard a quiet voice calling me, whispering my name, telling me stories I sensed were familiar. Stories about a girl, quite a happy girl. A girl who was free, out and about in the real world. They were irregular stories, as if somebody had written them down on paper, ripped those stories apart, shredded them, and then tried to put them back together - mixing the stories, and the places and the colours. Yet, they were lovely stories, so much better than the story I was living.  
Sometimes, I felt something cold touching my face where the skin was most sensitive, where the machines made contact with my body. The skin was raw there, but nothing compared to the bones underneath, which never really got the chance to recover. But that coolness, brought by something gentle, chased away much of the pain and helped me get to sleep.  
Sometimes, I saw blue stars above me, distant and chaotic. Or I'd feel a cup pressed to my lips and hear that same rough voice telling me to drink. Usually, I obliged, for it was a command that brought relief instead of pain.  
Sometimes, but not today.  
Today, and at this moment, I was sitting in the chair, my mind blank like a fresh canvas. No, more like a used canvas with all the paint scraped off, though there were a couple spots that didn't want to come off, and the canvas wasn't as pure as it had been when unpainted. I was desperately hoping they'd let me get back to my cell, where I could lie down with my eyes shut, or where I could stare up at the ceiling. I kept my eyes closed, wondering what they'd do if I died in this chair. They probably wouldn't even let me die in peace; they would take some machine to revive me, pulling me back to their grip. However, if none of that worked, I would be free, at last.

'It isn't working,' someone hissed. It was an impatient, vicious voice. 'I don't get why we need her; we've got the Asset. He can take down Rogers.'  
'That's not the point! Yes, he might take down Rogers, but what then? He's got his Avengers. We need her to help him. She might be our only option.'  
Rogers, I mused, I knew that name. And the Avengers also seemed to ring a bell. A quiet, little bell, somewhere in the depths of my mind - one of the shredded parts, where shadows ruled. Maybe.  
'Take her away!' It was so full of irritation, I wondered why it was so. Was it really that important I spoke the words they kept repeating? That I looked them in the eye and just did what they told me to? I couldn't understand that; they seemed to be with many and seemed to have much. How come they needed a broken human like me?  
'Where's the Asset?'  
'Taking care of some business,' the voice snapped. 'Get her out!'  
Rough hands grabbed me, pulled me while I stumbled, and threw me into an empty chamber. Before the door was shut, I collapsed; I hadn't been able to walk properly for… a while now. Normally, I didn't have to, they'd carry me to my bed. Somehow, today they thought I was better off sprawled across the floor.  
I found my own way to the bed, shaking. I scraped my hands on the floor. My knees could barely hold me, and my belly barely left the ground as I dragged myself across its surface. My knuckles cracked as I pulled myself up at the metal of the bed frame. Finally, my back hit the "mattress". I lay down.  
With barely enough mind power, I wondered. When would it end?

The world was rocking back and forth, gently rising me from oblivion. My damaged consciousness started to stir, realising it was not the world moving; instead it was me who was put into motion. In fact, I had been woken up by someone shaking me.  
My eyelids moved up sluggishly, not capable of raising all the way - eyelashes still clouded my vision. Between the thick lines of the lashes, I noted the man above me, clouded in darkness, with dark hair and bright blue eyes. The pale skin of his face stood out against the shadows while he hovered above me, seeming utterly distressed with his entire face scrunched up in frustration. I wasn't afraid of him, however, for he seemed no threat at all, with his shoulders limp and his eyes desperate for some grip on reality. I almost felt as if I was seeing a weird reflection of myself - like my disordered mind projected this apparition before me as an embodiment of my own chaotic emotions. I reached my hand up to his face and felt the rough scruff on his jaw - he was real, apparently. Real enough to talk to, anyway.  
'Who are you?'  
He frowned. He seemed startled by my touch, though he didn't flinch away. I let my arm drop. He watched it fall back to the mattress. 'Bucky…' he muttered, putting a lot of effort in pronouncing the name. 'Someone called me Bucky…'  
I studied him. He was shaking. He seemed almost afraid. There was no fear in my heart towards this man. He didn't want to hurt me, so perhaps he would even be honest. 'Why am I here, Bucky?' I asked him quietly. With my elbows, I propped myself up a little, so I could see him better, and see how he was kneeling beside my "bed".  
The visitor shook his head, like he was trying to chase away bad thoughts. 'I don't- I don't…' He rose from his knelt position, strands of dark hair falling into his eyes, and hurried out of the cell. For only a few seconds, he stopped at the door, looking me right in the eyes as he shut the door. Surprised, I looked after him, wondering who he was, what he had meant.  
'Bucky…' I whispered. I liked that name; it rolled easily off the tongue.  
I wasn't sure if I'd heard it correctly, or if it was only in my mind, but I thought I heard someone scream. In the distance echoed the sound of someone who was slowly loosing themselves. The screams of someone who's soul was being ripped out.


	12. Chapter 12

Noise. So much noise the world must be coming to an end. I groaned. My head hurt. It felt like the banging was inside my skull. Why didn't they stop?  
'Stop…' I moaned. 'Please, stop…'  
The door was thrown open, banging against the wall. In shock I stared at the person who'd kicked down the door. It was a furious looking woman with fiery hair. She was holding two guns and everything about her seemed to scream "danger!". I scrambled upright, my back pressed against the wall. When her eyes met mine, she smiled relieved.  
'Jaylin!' she called out.  
'Who are you?' my voice was quivering. I didn't know this woman, but I suspected this was a new technique. Had they come, again, so I would tell them what they wanted?  
'Jaylin?' the woman said insecurely, putting away the guns, showing me her hands. 'It's me, Natasha…'  
'I- I don't know you… are you from HYDRA?'  
Unbelievable she shook her head. She lifted her wrist to her mouth. 'I've found her Steve… she's…' he eyes looked at me, with a lost expression. 'I think you need to come, immediately.'  
The woman kept staring at me, though she kept her hand on the gun, while her eyes kept darting to the door. I was still frozen.  
Eventually I heard running footsteps, and a broad-shouldered, blond man stormed into the cell.  
'Jaylin, O, God!' he cried out and started coming towards me.  
'No…' I whimpered, pushing myself even tighter against the wall. He stopped, a look of incomprehension in his eyes.  
'Jaylin?' he asked, uncertain.  
I looked at him, studied him. I knew his face, I realised. Those eyes, I had seen him before. 'Are you- are you… Steve?' I asked, still shaking.  
'Yes,' he nodded carefully, his eyes wet. 'Yes, I'm Steve.'  
'I know you…' I muttered, grasping my head. Trying to remember made the headache worse. I saw images of this man smiling at me, holding out his arms, calling me Jaylin, and I ran towards him, laughing, calling him daddy.  
I opened my eyes again, staring at him.  
'Dad…?' I muttered insecurely.  
'Yes, yes!' his face brightened. 'Please, remember me, Jaylin. I'm here to take you home.'  
'Home…' Images and feelings flickered through me.  
He reached out to me, his palm upwards so I could take it.  
'Home…' I muttered again. Tears welled up in my eyes. 'Yes… I want to go home!'  
Slowly I got off the bed, shaking on my legs. Dad came forwards again, and this time I didn't object. He took me, and carried me, and I was paralysed as I listened to his heartbeat.  
Home…

There was a jet waiting outside, in which dad laid me down. I clamped to his wrist, begging him with my eyes to stay close. He did and sat down beside me. I curled up against him like a frightened dog. That's how I felt; a beaten dog.  
More strange people entered the jet. There was a man wearing a red and golden metal suit, then the woman with red hair, and finally a guy with goggles and mechanical wings.  
'Jaylin!' he smiled, great happiness on his face. I winced when he looked at me.  
'Sam, please, she… she doesn't remember… I don't know what they did…' Dad's voice was soft and reassuring, but also full of pain.  
The other man's face fell, and he shrunk like a deflating balloon. 'Damn…' he muttered. His hands reached up to his face to take of his goggles, then he took off most of the rest of his gear and sat down opposite us. Weariness flooded him. 'I just thought, once we get her back…' he rubbed his eyes, looking frustrated.  
'Me too, Sam…' dad sighed. The men exchanged looks, which I didn't know the meaning of. Then he gripped my hand and smiled reassuringly at me. 'It'll be alright,' he assured me. 'I promise.'

They took me to a Tower I knew I had been before. By that time, I _almost_ remembered how I knew these people. But there lingered this fog in my mind keeping me from finding answers to the millions of questions darting around in my head.  
I was lain down inside a hospital bed and connected to all sorts of tubes. I didn't mind; there was already nothing but fear inside me. At that I also wanted to remember why they were all so sweet, why they all seemed to care so much.  
However, I _did_ remembered my father. I knew why _he_ was smiling and crying at the same time. I knew why _he_ was holding my hand while the others worked. I knew why he made _me_ feel safe.  
So for a moment that had to be enough. For a moment I would have to let go.  
Someone injected a clear fluid into my IV. I closed my eyes. Finally, I could sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

A pair of piercing blue eyes was staring at me. They seemed to scream so many things I couldn't hear. So many words that were lost to me…  
I sighed and closed the notebook, hiding the eyes.  
It had been more than three months now. Three months of me trying to come to peace with my memories. And they had obeyed; with the help of my father's teammates, I had started to remember who they all were. More importantly, I remembered who I was.  
Sadly, I couldn't just remember the good parts. I had to relive everything that had happened after my disappearance, even the excruciating pain cause by torturing machine.  
In my dreams I was back in that chair, screaming, trying not to plead, trying to not let them win. So many nights I ran to my father's room, hiding underneath his blanket. And I barely dared to run through the dark hallways, afraid there would be somebody to take me back. For there were cold hands around every corner, evil eyes in every shadow. My mind was booby-trapped with fear.  
Although, I remembered different things, too.

I remembered Winter, or… Bucky… taking care of me. Showing me the pictures I had made. Muttering in Russian the stories I had told him.

I had this vivid memory of him holding the crunched up drawing, supporting my back with his metal arm, and frowning deeply as he stared at the lines I'd scribbled down. Unsurely and hesitantly, his rough voice muttering the Russian version of my tale. He mentioned a golden light, but also my mother's grave. He remembered it was near my home and that I liked the colours.  
Then he laid me down again, while my vision already started going dark. His blue eyes were the last thing I recalled.

It had also been him who'd remembered me my name was Jay.  
Why he had done it, I didn't know. I could only guess. My best bet was that he knew what I had been going through. That he knew how it felt to be ripped from your real self. And that even though he may not remember who this …Bucky… was, he still realised he wanted to know.  
Of course I had also realised what those screams had meant; they had wiped him again. And I wondered if someone already so far gone could recover the way I had done.

When dinnertime came along, Sam watched anxiously as I walked to the dinner table and sat down. Natasha was already there, and dad came to join us. He shortly took my hand, as had become our habit. I knew it was a reminder, for me, that he was there. So I wouldn't start trembling again. So I wouldn't lose myself again…  
Today had been a quiet day. I silently ate my spaghetti, while I could feel the sideway glances of the people around me. They did that often, all of them; they were afraid I would suddenly fall back. There was enough reason for their concerns; I had had bad days, on which I awoke screaming and I yelled at whoever came to my room, until they could convince me they weren't HYDRA.  
On days like that, I would be thrashing and turning, and throwing my arms and legs around, so nobody could come close. or I would roll up into this little ball of fear, whimpering when anyone dared to come close. Not even Sam or Natasha could help me when it happened. Only my father, with his strong arms and warm eyes could convince me I wasn't with HYDRA anymore. That I was in a place I called home. That I could believe the things I saw and heard – that I was among family.

'Dad,' I began slowly, making a decision I had been trying to make for a very long time. 'I want to know. Everything, I mean.' I looked up at him and saw him put down his cutlery.  
He sighed. There was no defiance in his eyes whatsoever. There was only resignation. 'You're right. I should have told you sooner-'  
'But you wanted to me save from your past…' I finished his sentence.  
He smiled sadly and looked down at his hands. 'Yes, that tuned out great… but I will tell you now. You deserve that.'  
He remained quiet for a moment, breathed in deeply, and then started telling his story.  
He told me about his past, about his family, about his life in Brooklyn. How he hadn't had much, but he had always had his best friend. He frowned when he mentioned him. Probably because he missed him. They were all dead, or very, very old, I realised, as his story enrolled. All these people, lost in time. All that he had cared about in his life, gone. Only because he wanted to save millions of people he had never met.  
The next bit of the story I already knew, roughly, as this was Captain America's story, not Steve Rogers'.  
'I was not one you'd call healthy, or strong, but the man who made the serum saw me and decided I was worthy of becoming the Captain. Someone killed him after they changed me, and because I was the only Super Soldier they'd created, they didn't think it was a good idea to let me go into battle. Until they captured… ' something dark rushed past my father's eyes, 'my friend. I helped him, and many more, escape from HYDRA. Afterwards, we became the howling commandos, a team specialized to take down HYDRA. Ultimately we failed, though we didn't know that at the time.'  
'Steve…' Natasha said warningly. 'You're not telling everything.'  
Dad shook his head. Even more sadness darkened his usually bright eyes. 'You're right.' He pinched the bridge of his nose, and again, inhaled deeply. 'During one of our missions, my friend fell of a train… I thought I lost him, but, it turns out…' he rubbed his forehead, 'Bucky-'  
'Is the Winter Soldier,' I interrupted him. I stared into blank space. Vague moving pictures danced in front of me.  
'Yes… how did you know?'  
'Because he told me…' I said very quietly. I remembered that night. He'd stood over me, panic filling his eyes. He'd been truly afraid, that day. He'd found this piece of a puzzle that would change everything, that would force him into reality. And he had come to me.  
'He… remembered?' There was a bit of hope in my father's voice.  
'I don't know. He was the one who kidnapped me, right?' The others nodded. 'He told me he didn't have a name, until the last time I saw him, then he told me someone called him Bucky, that must have been you, right?' Dad nodded. 'They wiped him afterwards…' I muttered. His agonising screams echoed inside my head. 'He'll remember neither of us.'  
I shuddered, thinking back at the pain, at how it felt being stripped from your own mind. I felt a hand on my arm and when I looked up, I saw Sam smile reassuringly at me. I smiled back. A hinge of guilt crept into my heart. The same guilt arose every time one of the team members did something nice, but mostly Sam. Because how could I have forgotten Sam? How could I have looked at him in horror? Apart from my father, there was no one more important in my life. Even now, I sometimes scurried away when he startled me. Everything seemed to startle me, but I could see the hurt in Sam's eyes every time he was the one who did it.  
'Jaylin,' dad said suddenly. It sounded as if he had made up his mind about something.  
'Yeah?' I looked at him. There was this determined look on his face, determined and maybe a bit scared.  
'Would you like to come with me to the Smithsonian?'


	14. Chapter 14

Close to my father, who was wearing a dark blue cap to hide his face in order to go up in the crowd, I crossed the museum's threshold. We shuffled along with the queue of people, many with children - of whom some were eager to go in, bouncing up and down, while others hung at their parents' hand with sour faces. Also present in large quantities were older people (who, let's be honest, were probably still younger than dad) in big parties with tour guides, all worried they would get lost or lose their group. Those little flags functioned as their guiding beacons.  
I was experiencing something of a mixture of it all. Because finally, after all this time, I would see it all. Everything my father had tried to shield me from, a world full of peril and humans who didn't seem to deserve that title. Filled with people without any humanity left.  
In that moment I was a lot of things; eager to know; unhappy about the circumstances; anxious I'd get swallowed up by the crowd; frightened to lose my father again; determined to carry on.

Since I didn't care anymore how I looked or how I got across to the hundreds of strangers around me, I was wearing oversized sweatpants and hoody, knowing no one from my former life would ever recognise me. I barely felt like the same person, anyway. I was nothing like the confident, strong Jaylin who had wanted to do everything on her own. If I'd go back to school, no one would think the hollow-eyed girl was Jailyn Rogers. Even I wondered, whenever I looked into the mirror or saw a picture of myself, how both of those people belonged to the same body.

While dad was near to make me feel safe, outside the noble building was Natasha sitting on the great steps leading up to the entrance, keeping an eye out, while Sam used his wings to get an overview. I had to trust upon their protection. Frankly, their presence was probably more to easy my nerve than to actually take down bad guys. But, like usual, my brain couldn't convince my heart it was safe – especially since most of my brains had stopped believing in safety, for they remembered vividly what had been done to them.

Dad lead me to the exhibitions, with his hand on my back at all times. My fingers grasped a piece of his shirt, to reassure myself I wouldn't lose track of him. The exhibition wasn't hard to find, as there were many posters and signs leading to it, many of which carrying pictures of my father's face. "Welcome Back Captain", one of those signs read. It was weird, seeing all these pictures of him - all these people coming to learn about him. Sure, I had known who he was all my life, but seeing with my own eyes how famous he was… it was bizarre. He was just my dad.

We walked silently and slowly through the exhibition. I read every sentence there was, studied every picture. I wanted to know, finally know. Here lay my father's story, for the world to see. He had given them so much, and yet now his entire life had been left to be seen by anyone. Except for me, I realised. I was some private part of his life. There wasn't a single picture of me. I was still his.

I kept glancing at the middle of the exhibition; a wall with a picture of Captain America and the Howling Commandos, with their uniforms worn by unmoving, blank looking mannequins in front of it. It had a strange pulling effect one me.  
Eventually, I reached a wall dedicated to Steve Rogers' childhood friend, James Buchanan Barnes. Seeing these pictures and videos of him was odd, with his short hair, 40ties uniform and human expression. This was nothing like the man I had met.  
There was this video of him, after dad had saved him from HYDRA, in which he was smiling, laughing, his face rounded by the happy expression. His nose scrunched up a little as he did so. This was barely more than a boy. This was a human being. He was free, and he had chosen to fight for what he thought was right. This wasn't a machine.

Though there was this picture of him staring into the distance, with a distant, far-away look which I found very familiar. But another photograph showed him focussing on a map or plane of sorts, his concentration clearly visible on his face. I recognised that look too; from when he'd lain me down after another session in "the chair", and I had still been trembling. He'd arranged my body in a way to relief the parts most badly hurt and had most carefully pushed the thread-like strands of hair away from my face.  
I had barely been conscious, and when his hand trailed down my cheek, I had taken his left hand and held it in my weak grip and trailed my thumbs around the knuckles. 'So cold…' I'd whispered. Then I'd taken the hand still against my face and held it in the same way. 'Warm…' I'd tried to arrange my face into a smile, though I hadn't even known how to do that anymore.  
At that moment, his eyes had softened in a way that had burned itself on my retina. It was the moment he looked most like a human – the moment, I realises, I'd seen a glimpse of the man that lay beneath the ghost; the man preserved on shiny paper and reels of film.

We carefully made our way towards the centre, where there also was a large picture of Bucky. He seemed determined, proud, strong, brave, even handsome in his new uniform. He stood next to the Captain, unaware of his impending doom. I looked up, and the sadness in dad's eyes. His face had lost its usual strong expression of determination. I gripped his hand. 'I am so sorry,' I whispered.  
Dad tried to smile, but failed tragically. 'He looked right at me,' he shook his head, ' he looked right at me and didn't even recognise me.'  
'You don't know that. He seemed shaken, he-' my voice cracked as I thought back. 'He was speaking English,' I said. This was something I had realised a long time ago, when I had gotten most of my own mind back, and I couldn't stop thinking about the man who'd taken me. 'He never did that. I think you did trigger some part of him, the old Bucky.'  
Dad nodded, though hopelessness had taken over his eyes. 'Maybe.'  
I hugged him tightly. I looked at the young men on the memorial wall. Both of them had been thought dead. They had both done and given everything for their country, for the world. And what had the world given them in return?  
I was starting to shake lightly - not a good sign.  
'Come.' I was lead outside, back to the car. No one bothered us. No one recognised us. If I just didn't think for a moment, I could pretend we were part of the crowd, part of the people who were just curious about a past unknown and distant to them. To whom these soldiers were no more than pictures and names. Who didn't know who the Winter Soldier was.


	15. Chapter 15

'Damn it, Steve! You're _not_ coming with us!'  
' _You're_ not telling me what to do, Tony!'  
'You are _too_ involved in this!'  
'That's exactly why I _should_ go!'  
'You are not yourself! You'll endanger the mission!'  
'No, I-' the moment I set foot into the room they shut up, their heads snapping in my direction. I had been hearing their angered voices from afar, right through the door and walls of the Tower. They hadn't intended me to come across them fighting,; they tried to settle their differences when I wasn't around, and usually I tried to steer clear from any arguments. This time, however, I was unusually drawn towards their fight.  
Tony and dad stood opposite each other, their faces tense. Dad was glaring, while Tony seemed more aggravated and almost tired. He didn't seem to be worried about my father's clenched fists, or how close he was standing. Tony stood with his feet slightly apart, steady, determined to hold on to his own right. Both stepped back when they realised it was me.  
I stood stiff in the doorway, not sure if I should come nearer or if even wanted to step into this bubble of negativity and anger. However, I had to say something. My heart demanded it.  
'You're going after _him_.' It wasn't even a question. Only this subject could make my father so tense and emotional.  
It was Tony who pulled himself together first. He took another step backwards, straightening his shirt. It was one of his dark t-shirts with attention seeking graphics. 'Yes. And _we_ are going, while _your father_ stays home,' he said explicitly. At that, dad shot Tony one of the deadliest looks I had ever seen him give anyone, including myself.  
Before he could restart their argument, I stepped in. My voice trembled slightly when I spoke. 'Dad, don't go.'  
Instantly, dad was a fish on dry land. His mouth moved, but no sounds came out. 'What?'  
I let my breath escape through my nose. This had to be approached with deliberation and logical arguments, for my dad's eyes betrayed his heart had already decided. 'Tony's right. You are too involved. It'll make everything even more dangerous.'  
Instead of looking satisfied at getting support, Tony's face fell. Frustration crossed his face. 'I'm sorry, Steve. This is best.'  
Dad looked at me. Betrayal flickered in his eyes, before it settled into acceptance. His eyes carefully scanned my face. 'You must be right. Perhaps I can't think straight anymore.'

Side by side, dad and I watched as Tony, Natasha and Sam set out on their mission. They all hugged me before they left, even Tony. 'Keep your father safe,' he told me quietly. He glanced at dad, who was trying really hard to keep his face straight. I knew it was difficult for him, knowing they were going to trap his friend, and he wouldn't be there. But we couldn't just hope Bucky would recognise him and come willingly. The last time we'd seen him, he'd still been HYDRA's weapon - the well-oiled machine programmed to destroy us. They might have been going after HYDRA for a while now, it had not been until very recently they had found traces of their most lethal force. This only meant that even with most of HYDRA gone, he knew how to use the shadows to stay unseen.  
'Please, try not to hurt him,' I whispered. 'I know he's done many… horrible things. But I swear, it wasn't him. He didn't know what he was doing. He- he helped me.'  
Tony shot me a worried look. 'He shot and kidnapped you, Jay.'  
'I know. Still…' How to explain the things I owed Bucky? How could I ever explain to anyone who had never experienced how it was to be ripped from your own mind I wouldn't be there without him? Perhaps I should tell them more, about the drawings, the whispered memories, the quiet help in the darkness, but I hadn't. I just couldn't bare it to let myself go back to that prison again and tell anyone of that bond I had formed with this broken human being.  
Tony looked sympathetic. He probably thought this was some form of Stockholm syndrome. 'Please, Jay. Look after yourself, too.'  
As they all left after their concerned goodbyes, I realised that I was _their_ broken human being. They had seen me shattered, and knew it wouldn't take much for me to fall in fractures to the ground. So, even though they were the ones tracking the most dangerous assassin that had ever lived, it was only _my_ wellbeing they were worried about.

Without either of us making a sound, dad and I turned around, returning to our separate rooms. However, not until we'd looked each other in the eye, giving a subtle nod. We would just have to wait - wait, and hope for the best.  
On moments like these, I realised how much my father and I were alike. Both realised we needed some time to sit alone, going over all the thoughts in our head. We could've sat with each other, using empty words to reassure each other everything would be alright. But we had never benefited from empty promises, even if meant to calm us.  
In my room I sat, with my knees curled up to my chest, trying not to feel. Because there was simply too much to feel; a fear like a cold, metal hand around my heart… accompanied by a guilt – it was my guilt towards my father, who had wanted to go so badly. But I just couldn't let him; if he'd get hurt, or worse…  
I just couldn't lose him. Besides, I told myself dad would probably be too distracted to be of any help. He'd only endanger the mission and the team… right?  
Suddenly, images of my dad, hurt and bloody, crawling on the ground, arose in my mind. His hands were shaking terribly, as they tried to find grip on the rough floor. Then they slipped from something shiny and metal. A rough edge cut his hand, he cried out and pulled his hand back. More blood fell to the earth. Something vaguely red and blue came into focus. Even though it was badly damaged, I recognised it nonetheless: it was my father's shield. The shield I had grown up with. The shield that was practically my brother and which I had despised so many times. Yet, when I saw it like this, without barely any paint left, dented and scratches more than ever before, and broken in half, it crushed my heart.  
This isn't real, I reminded myself. This is only my mind losing it again.  
I gasped for air. I gasped again, and again, and again. Air, I thought, I need air. But it didn't enter my lungs. It seemed to disappear the moment it touched the inside of my mouth. The walls started spinning, the bed started waving. The ceiling was coming down, or was the floor moving up? I didn't know anymore. I only knew I was dying.  
I tried to cry out, I tried to tell dad he should watch out, that he had to live, because I needed him. No voice. Only gasping. While rocking back and forth.  
No! This isn't really happening; dad is in this building. He's safe. This. Is. Not. Real.  
I clenched my jaw, determined to keep my lips pressed together. At fist my brain screamed at me I would suffocate, that I would choke myself. Then the rapid breathing seemed to slow down, and the world stopped spinning. I let my nose do the inhaling and the exhaling. My mouth had been blocked by my trembling fingers from the moment I started making weird noises like a dying fish. They were wet, just like my face. My eyes stung. My vision was still blurry. I fell over, my face pressed into my pillow.

What was I doing? I wondered. How could I ever support dad? And how could I ever help Bucky once they'd retrieved him? In this state I was no help to anyone.  
Music, I thought. I need music. Music would calm me down.  
Still with trembling fingers, I managed to squeeze the small earbuds into my earholes. I wiped the screen. It didn't work. A small trail of water remained. Quickly, I wiped my hands dry and pressed upon the buttons until familiar, repressing melodies filled my ears.  
However, it still wasn't enough. My heart was still pounding too rapidly. I needed something else, something to distract me.  
Running. That's what I had always done in my former life. I couldn't go outside. Frankly, I didn't have any desire to do anything of the kind, but I could still stretch my legs.

Thud. Thud. Thud. My footsteps echoed quietly around the bright hallways. I watched the outside world, with its city lights and tall buildings; its roads and tiny cars; its people, going about their ordinary lives. A city free from dangers it would never know.  
Behind it all, the sun slowly started to set. It approached the skyline until only its fierce rays protruded from behind towers, all very unlike this one. The sun glistened from a thousand windows hurting my eyes, yet I didn't look away. I kept looking, and I kept running, until a familiar quinjet appeared between the stars in the already dark sky.


	16. Chapter 16

'Dad. Dad!' My fists ruffled on my father's bedroom door. There were muffled steps, and the door was yanked open. Dad towered above me, his gaze fixed upon me, his face frozen in an empty yet haunted expression. I felt my heart almost stop – I had never seen him like this before. 'They're here…' I croaked.  
Alongside dad I hurtled towards the runway, fearing what I might find there. My brain told me it was out of the question a happy outcome was waiting for me, for there didn't seem to be a happy outcome possible for me or my dad. Tragedy seemed to run in our blood.  
'Sam!' I gasped, running up to the winged man. 'Sam, did you-'  
Sam caught me as I skirted to a halt. 'Easy, Jay. Yes, we've got him. Alive,' he hastily added, when my fingers dug into his arms. My nails scratched his armoured suit, and a thin layer of skin scraped off the tips of my fingers.  
'How…'  
'We've had to sedate him. He's pretty beaten up, though. He put on quite the fight.' Sam glanced up and met dad's eyes. Dad nodded stiffly. His eyes were far away, somewhere 70 years ago, I guessed. It was not difficult to guess; I remembered the story he'd told me, about a bruised and bloody Bucky he'd saved from the Nazis. A Bucky who could barely stand on his own legs. Perhaps he even thought back to a small figure slipping through his hands, tumbling down a mountain's side. I knew I did, even without having witnessed it.  
Dad had just stepped closer to us, so he stood shoulder to shoulder with Sam, and I carefully moved nearer to dad, who put one hand on my shoulder. Sam tightened the group even further by taking another step towards us when Natasha appeared, all bruised and beat up, with her hair a hot mess. She was carrying one end of a stretcher. Her elegant hands were wrapped tightly around the metal bars.  
With careful steps she moved closer to us, until the person on the stretcher came into view, along with Tony, who was carrying the other end, still in his suit, though without the helmet covering his face.  
He lay still, Bucky, on the stretcher. His body was limp; his arms were bound to each other and his torso with thick metal bars. His face was cut and one of his eyes had just started to turn purple, accentuating the depths in his face. Even his feet were tied, emphasising the danger this man could pose.  
With every step Natasha and Tony took, my stomach twisted even further, until the nausea nearly made me be sick. I had to constantly remind myself he wasn't dead, that his chest was clearly moving up and down, but still… this man had been imprisoned for so long it was unfair they'd have to tie him up like this, like a captured lion, or a wolf. Then I remembered Sam's words: "He put on quite the fight." I could only imagine how much effort it must have cost them to bring him here without getting killed themselves.

We followed in an odd parade. Sam kept glancing at me and my dad with tremendous worry in his eyes. Half way I tried to smile, but when I failed miserably I just turned my face away, so I could concentrate on the path ahead.  
Bucky was lifted off the stretcher inside a bright white room with almost nothing in it, except for the chair -like contraption that held Bucky in its metal clasps. There was a mirrored wall, though, which was see-through on the other end. Bucky still hadn't woken up, though Sam reassured me that wasn't anything to worry about. Then again, I thought, he'd lived for what, a hundred years? Most of which, I had figured, in ice. He should survive a brawl with "friendly" forces.

The ones that had retrieved Bucky left, anxious to remove their gear, take a nice hot shower, and probably eat something as well. Natasha, it seemed, also needed a bit of patching up, as she was the one who usually received a lot of the punches, due to her expertise in close-contact fighting. Thankfully, all her bones were intact, and most of her skin as well. Natasha's injuries would've only made this situation worse.

'You're going in, aren't you?' I asked in an awfully calm monotone voice. Dad's shoulders tightened up, as if all the muscles contracted at once, preparing for hand-to-hand combat. His blue eyes skirted all around the room behind the glass, without once looking at me. Obviously, his mind was already inside; only his body had yet to follow.  
Jerkily, his chin moved down and quickly up again. It was a strange nod, like he suddenly didn't know how to nod anymore. 'I have to.' A statement, definite and clear, which spoke of a guilt inside every fibre of this body. A guilt I understood.  
Thus, I watched him open the heavily armed door, halting just before he stepped across the threshold. Once more I could see the blue of his eyes directly and noticed a dangerous conviction seeping through his hopelessness. A sudden burst of ice rose inside my heart, racing through my veins, crawling underneath my skin. My mouth opened, 'Da-' but he was already gone.

White condensation formed on the reflective barrier between me and the super soldiers. My face was pressed up against the glass, and my hands whitened from the pressure I exerted onto the surface. I tried to obtain as much information as possible from my father's pose, for his back was turned on me. Broad shoulders concealed his old time friend from my view, and his fair head seemed neither tilted up nor down.  
Warm hands rested upon my shoulders. Immediately, my heart jumped out of my chest, screaming, "Run! Get away!". Instead, I repeated, "It's only Sam. It's only Sam," over and over in my head. It had become a little habit of mine; chanting their names – of those people I trusted, of the people who cared for me – like a divine spell to vanquish the evil housing in my heart. A fear which never really seemed to leave.  
A quick glance back was enough to register my favourite version of Sam; a Sam wearing a simple grey shirt, jeans and checked blouse of faded colours. He looked so normal and stable. Admittedly, his wings were awesome and they made him a fierce fighter, but they made him Falcon. Just like the shield made my father Captain America instead of Steve Rogers. Naturally, I wholeheartedly preferred the people underneath the suits.  
At last, dad began to move. His foot left the ground, as in slow-motion, and tilted while the knee bent, before it hit the ground a couple inches further. Outside this heavenly white prison it appeared mute – Bucky's eyes flew open.  
Rapidly the pupils adjusted to the ferocious light – they focussed on my father's figure, paralysed, his left foot halfway off the floor – and the tied up body began to thrust. His face contorted as he tried to free himself, while the bonds strained underneath his inhuman strength. The lamps' illumination bounced off the silvery metal of Bucky's prosthetic arm as it clenched and flexed and tested the strength of the cuffs holding it in place.  
'Bucky, Bucky, please!' My father's voice brought along another shockwave, almost draining out the first one, caused by the blue appearance. 'Bucky, you know me! We were friends! Remember, please!' But it was all in vain. Even from where I was standing, I could see none of the words reached the ears of the captive. The pleads were as useful as promises of no harm to an animal stuck in a trap.  
There was nothing I wanted more than to turn away, to push my burning face into Sam's shirt, with my hands pressed to my ears, draining out the sound of nightmares – somehow, I couldn't. My eyes were glued to this heart-breaking scene. Images arose, like they often did. Of a chair with bonds, of pain and agony. Of fear and anguish.  
'Jay,' I heard a worried whisper, 'maybe you should go.'  
'No…' I protested, clenching my fists together and keeping my mind anchored to the present. 'I can… I can…' though what I was capable of, I never knew. For at that instant, my father raised his hand. His posture had barely changed since Bucky's awakening (though perhaps his shoulders had slumped a little) and some of the reassuring power he carried had vanished. There was something in his hand; a small device, obscured by his powerful fingers. Abruptly, his thumb pressed down. Nothing happened.  
I blinked, surprised – perhaps a little relieved. Then, as my eye slid back to Bucky, I noticed how his movements had slowed down. Some of the vigour had left him, and gradually, all energy seeped away. Lastly, his eyelids fell shut.  
Shocked, I stared blankly ahead. Dad's lifted arm lowered slowly, until it hung once again next to him. He didn't turn around just yet. First, his shoulders moved up, stayed high for a couple seconds, and sank down again. Only then my father rotated his body, so I could see his face again; it was stuck between the same shock I was experiencing and a unsettling stoic calmness. The expression remained as he left the cell, carefully locked the door behind him, and faced me and Sam.  
'Dad,' I began insecurely, my voice low. I wanted to say something to reassure him, to relief him from some of the pain he was going through. I reached out, and gripped dad's hand which didn't hold the calming device. 'He'll come back, dad. Your Bucky. I came back, didn't I?'  
Dad's fingers curled around mine, thankful for the support, and also slightly desperate for a comforting touch. 'They had you for weeks, Jaylin. They've had him for decades.' And you're not the same Jaylin either, his eyes seemed to ad.  
'It'll work,' was the only thing I knew to respond. 'It has to.'


	17. Chapter 17

After dad had mildly loosened his grip on my hand, I had let go, looking after him as he retreated back to his own room. I had wanted to stay near the glass, watching this creature; this person who had lost his ability to be a person. To watch him endure this forced sleep. However, Sam had gently but urgently pushed me back to the living quarters of the tower, sat me down in my favourite chair, and he had then given me a fresh bowl of macaroni and cheese. With my hands cupped around the warm bowl, I realised I had no idea if I had eaten anything today, or the days previous. Knowing my dad, Sam, Natasha, and even Tony, I had – though only because it was handed to me.

Sam sat down opposite me, with his right elbow leaning on the other arm, and the fingers on his right hand touching his mouth. Thoughtfully, he studied me, watching as I spooned the pasta into my mouth, chewing every bite a little too much, just so I had something to concentrate on. Besides, it was good pasta. Even though I may not remember to eat myself, I did rediscover the joy of eating good food, especially in good company.  
Once all the little curves had been scraped from the bottom, I placed the bowl on a nearby table. Sam had hardly moved since he'd handed me the nutrition, for he had been too deep in thought. Now, he shifted his weight and crossed his arms.  
'Sam…' I began. I curled my legs underneath me so I was sitting on my own feet, facing my guardian of sorts, 'do you think dad will be alright?'  
'Jay, really…' Sam shook his head, frowning and with a slight curl to his lips. 'Don't you think you should ask yourself that?'  
Now it was me who frowned. 'But dad…'  
'Steve is upset by what is happening lately, yes. But his greatest worry is still you, Jay. And also mine.' He stated it so simply, so matter-of-factly, as if it was the most logical thing on the planet. Naturally, he seemed to say, you are more important than his childhood friend, who he lost decades ago.  
'Bucky…'  
'We will try to help him the best we can. Meanwhile, you've gotta keep looking out for yourself.'  
At that, I launched myself forwards, into Sam's arms. I curled up into a little ball, thanking God for all the people in my life. If there would ever come something positive from my time with HYDRA, it would be my newfound appreciation for all the people who looked out for me. For I had never been appreciative before.  
'Thank you, Sam,' I muttered. 'For everything.'

I awoke in my own bed, wearing my dark blue pyjamas spangled with white stars, which Natasha must have wriggled my sleeping body into. The skills of that woman never ceased to impress me.  
I lay awake for quite some time, listening to the soft ticking of the analogue clock dad had put up for me the day this had become my permanent room. The room didn't look like a room where someone lived, more like a room you'd find in a leaflet for a furniture shop; there was a desk with many utensils, but they were untouched. Likewise, all the books on the shelves stood straight as an arrow. The wardrobe was closed, but would it be opened, it would become clear I hadn't put the clothes in there, but only pulled them out, ruining the tidy stacks of shirts and trousers.  
When I realised I wasn't going to fall asleep anymore, I worked myself up, leaving the safe comfort of my bed. My feet slipped into bed slippers before they threaded across my room to the door. It opened soundlessly, revealing dark hallways. The entire Tower was cloaked in darkness, so the lights of the city appeared to blaze up in the distance. What was I doing? I thought. Why am I out of bed?  
Then I started moving, letting my heart rule my body, instead of my conflicted, broken mind. The beating motor guided me towards a storage space filled with stuff Tony - or any of us - never used. I picked up a small, fake lantern with a convincing electrical flame. With it held up high, its light illuminating the dark path ahead, I shuffled along. The lantern made me feel like an explorer, in a fantasy land I liked to draw. Yes, I thought. Let's pretend I'm a brave heroine, frightened by nothing – better even: the dark is frightened by me.

The door creaked not even a bit, which made the scene eerier than if it had made a sound like any normal door would. Even the once brightly lit room had been obscured, laying layers of darkness across the soldier's body. The dark prevented me to see whether the prisoner was awake, so I tiptoed in while holding the lantern close to my body.  
For some reason, I had expected the room to be cold, haunted by an icy wind. It had probably something to do with my memories, the cold lightening previously illuminating the room and Bucky's other name, The Winter Soldier. Instead, it was just as comfortable as any other room in the tower – apart from that time I had kept complaining how cold I was, and I had stolen one of Tony's favourite sweaters, and Tony had turned my room into a living sauna.

Something moved in the darkness. As I lowered the lantern and adjusted a little wheel at the bottom of it, the light blazed to life and created a spooky play of slightly moving shadows. Bucky was looking right at me. His beat-up face contracting in a scowl like a caged animal and his body was trembling.  
Momentarily, I was just as frozen. Then I let go of the lamp. 'Hey…'  
Bucky looked at me as if I was a hunter, holding a dripping knife, ready to slice his throat. Every bit of him was filled with pure fear, a purely instinctual fear, screaming at him to get away from me, the danger. He tried to move but was obstructed by his bonds.  
For a moment I stared at the metal holding him back. The way he was forced into the chair reminded me a little too much of the seat HYDRA had formed me into. I wanted to be sick again. 'I'm sorry you're tied up. I just don't know what you'll do if I let you out…' My gaze returned to his tortured face. 'Remember when it was the other way around? When I was hurt, you helped me. Do you still remember that?' I pleaded. 'You helped me and took care of me, you told me who I was. Let me do that for you, please. Let me help you.'  
Instinctively I took a step forwards. Immediately, Bucky started to strain against his bonds. I could see he was only wounding himself even more.  
'Please!' I begged. 'Don't hurt yourself. Please…' without knowing what I was doing, I put my hand on his. Instantly, he froze. His blue eyes widened ever further, and I stepped back, drawing away as if I'd just touched a burning stove. Something started crumbling inside me. 'I'm sorry.'  
My hand found the handle of the lantern and squeezed it until my knuckles hurt. I started backing away, keeping my face towards the confused bundle of human in front of me at all times. 'I'm not going to give up. I told you once before; Jaylin Rogers doesn't give up. And I know I cannot bring the old Bucky back, because you aren't him. But maybe I can bring some of him back, and some of Winter, who helped me, without having a reason.  
You're going to be free one day. You will be, I promise.'  
There was no way to tell if my words registered with him. He was still staring, always staring, with those unsettling blue eyes. Even more crumbled inside me. I turned around and ran, only just remembering to shut the door and how to get to my room. Inside, I threw the lantern on my bed, panting. Just like that, I was running again. I turned more corners, skidded across more floors. Then I reached my destination, and I hurtled through the door. My heart didn't stop racing until dad mumbled incoherently, woke up a little, and wrapped his strong arm around me. His warmth gave me the ability to breathe again.  
Tomorrow night, I thought, I'll go again. I'm going to save him – I will.


	18. Chapter 18

The morning after my great nightly promise, I woke up because dad tried to move his arm away and failed in keeping me asleep. 'Sorry,' he mumbled when he realised my eyes had opened.  
'It's okay.' With my arms stretched across the soft mattress, I arched my back like a cat, feeling stiff muscles sigh and shriek at the same time. 'I wanted to make something of today, anyway.'  
'Really?' Dad seemed pleased, despite the darkness underneath his eyes. 'You're gonna draw? Or do you want me to ask Tony if he still got those hologram-things you used to love?'  
'Dad!' I exclaimed, chuckling as I remembered the special holograms Tony had made when I wouldn't stop eating play dough. Dad had been extraordinarily frustrated, even though it had been nontoxic and made for children. 'I was like three!'  
'I know,' Dad stroked my hair, just as he'd always done when I was little. His eyes were soft and his expression open, 'but I think he's been upgrading them – it can do sculpting and painting and all sorts of stuff.'  
'Really?' I liked the sound of that; despite the fact I preferred pencils above everything else, I loved trying new art forms. A long lost sensation arose within me: excited curiosity. I marvelled at its return while I lay on my belly to grab my bed slippers from the floor, so my feet wouldn't get cold. 'Is he trying to take over the art supply world?' I joked with a muffled voice.  
'No, he just wanted to make you something nice. Here.' Due to my sluggish motions while searching for my footwear, dad had already gotten the chance to walk around the bed and handing me the slippers I was looking for. 'You seem surprised,' dad smiled. 'You don't believe he would make something for you?'  
'Sure I do,' I replied quickly, masking the jolt I had indeed felt at this revelation, 'I just didn't know he thinks me old enough to switch from playdough to the adult stuff.'

After a nice breakfast of pancakes and a gorgeous view of the early morning New York skyline, I made my way down to Tony's labs, knowing he spent like 99% of his waking time in there. Seeing how he usually spent no more than 20% of his time sleeping, there was barely any chance I wouldn't find him there. As expected, he was playing with some fancy new electronic bits for one of his suits, or possibly an upgraded coffeemaker; with Tony you could never be entirely certain.  
When he heard me come in he looked up, grinning instantly. 'Hey, Jay, what brings you here?'  
I shrugged. 'Dad mentioned some neat arty things you were working on?'  
'Oh, you're talking about the JAM?' Carelessly, he threw away his screwdriver and moved away from his project.  
I followed him, very aware of the stuff sprawled across the floor. 'JAM?'  
'Jay's Art Machine,' Tony explained, rummaging through the mess on his workstations. There seemed to be a lot of unfinished products, and I wondered how many of those could change the world, if only Tony didn't have so many ideas, as well as some structure in his life.  
Gently, I pushed away a heap of metal parts, clearing a little space, and hopped onto the worktop. 'Don't you think simulator would've been better,' I commented slyly.  
Tony smirked. 'Yeah, but JAM sounds cooler. Besides, I first wanted to call it "The apparatus to stop the clay monster", but that didn't have quite the same ring to it.' He looked up, his dark eyes glimmering.  
I stuck out my tongue before I replied indignantly, 'I was a toddler, Tony!'  
'I know,' he grinned. 'I told Steve a little clay wouldn't hurt anybody. He'd rather not take the risk. So, to stop your frustrated crying, I gave you a little something to do.' He held up a small metal pot, shimmering silver, which I vaguely remembered. 'I kept it, so all it needed was a little upgrade.' He showed another three of the same pods, and one slightly bigger one. Then he took a thin, smooth tablet, and with everything stacked in his arms, he told me to come along. Apparently, the living room would be more suitable for a demonstration. 'It's too messy, here,' he explained.  
'Well, I'm glad you are aware,' I grinned.

Back in the living room, Tony set up the four little pods in a square, with the bigger one in the middle. 'If these lights are green, there's a good distance between them. If they're orange, it's still possible, but not optimal. Red means they're too far apart,' Tony informed me. 'You can sculpt in the middle, like so.' A tall block of marble appeared above the coffee table, which changed colours when Tony dragged his finger across the tablet's screen.  
'But,' the inventor continued, 'you can also paint an entire room, or redecorate it, if you want.' The walls started to flicker with different hues and patterns. 'Here's a library with textures and colours and shapes,' he handed me the tablet, 'and you can pick the mode you want to work in. That's it, I think.'  
Speechless, I stared at the technologies in my hands. I turned it around and saw the name engraved in swirly letters; "Jay's Art Machine."  
'That's it…' I repeated incoherently. 'That's it…' I shook my head. 'Seriously, Tony. I- just- gee… thank you. It's incredible!'  
Tony was smiling at me when I looked back up. There was no trace of smugness - which, honestly, would have been appropriate, seeing the awesomeness of the creation - only a happy contentment. 'I take it you like it.'  
'I take it you have put too much effort in this, Tony. Wasted so many hours you could've spend saving the world.' But I was smiling, secretly glad he put those hours into making this.  
'Saving the world becomes such a boring thing once you've done it a dozen times. I appreciate a good challenge.' Tony shrugged, as if it was nothing. As if it wasn't everything. As if it was obvious he should prefer making something for me instead of the entire planet.  
'Damn it, Tony,' I sighed, 'you're supposed to be annoying…'  
With arched eyebrows he gave me an uncharacteristic piercing and comprehensive look. 'Am I supposed to, or is that how you see me?'  
'Wha-' embarrassingly, the latter was probably true. My cheeks flushed with the realisation, and the shame about my former attitude.  
Then Tony winked. 'Though I have to admit, I have teased you in the past. I hope this can make up for it?'  
'O, for God's sake, Tony!' I cried out, and hugged him.  
'I should do this more often,' Tony chuckled, 'I usually don't get such a response when I make something.'  
'You usually aren't out of your workspace to see people's reactions,' I pointed out.  
Tony padded the back of my head. 'You're right. And I must be getting back; my androids are missing me.'  
I stepped back and looked up at him. 'You're a weirdo, you know that?'  
Tony gave a weird little bow. 'It's in the job description.'

'So…' I muttered to myself, looking at the thin tablet I'd just been gifted, 'let's get down to business, shall we?'  
First, however, I moved everything to my own room, so I wouldn't be an inconvenience to anyone. Besides, I would have more privacy there. When everything was properly set up again, I mused what I would do. I didn't really have much inspiration, so I just started playing around with the many features on the device. The walls became a whizzing whirlpool of colour, until they became a subtle, soft tint of blue, which reminded me of something. Ah, yes: my old room. The one in the white house, hidden in the woods. The one I had run from, and started this mess.  
From that moment on, my hands started to move all by themselves, scrolling through pages of previews of textures, colours, patterns. But the walls weren't good enough, I also tried to find the perfect furniture; the closet I remembered, the desk scribbled with coloured pens from when I was a child, and of course the bed I'd lain in. Yet, it still missed something. Thus, I let the virtual ceiling come down, took an old paintbrush so I could have something in my hand, and started painting. I often closed my eyes, just to see the picture in my head I was trying to replicate. When I was finished, the night's sky looked descent enough, though wasn't nearly as pretty as the one dad had painted for me in our home.  
Satisfied, I let the ceiling up again and sat down on my bed. I looked around, looking at the safe and familiar surroundings. Especially the stars dad had painted when I was a kid were something I'd missed since moving here. Their familiarity was just so comforting.  
I stiffened. Wait. Familiar surroundings…  
An idea started forming in my head, bit by bit. I could make him feel better. If only he wouldn't feel so threatened, he might start listening.  
Finally, I thought, hope rising inside me, I might have found a way.


	19. Chapter 19

After I'd messed around with the JAM for such a long time the walls began warping and all the colours mixed together, and I had observed the result for even longer while working out the idea I'd just come up with, I got up, switched off all the pods and left the tablet face down on my nearly used desk. I did it all with uttermost care, knowing I would need all the parts more than I needed air to breathe.

Thereupon I went to the kitchen, following the low rumble in my stomach and found - to my big surprise - dad there, blankly staring into the refrigerator.  
'Please tell me you're not thinking about going back in there.' My father gave a start, looked up, and was pulled back to reality. 'Relax,' I smiled, 'it's me.'  
Dad smiled back, the mist lifting from his eyes. 'Don't worry, I've been frozen long enough.'  
'Oh, so you were trying to find answers in the fridge.' I leaned against the kitchen table. 'I'm afraid you're only going to find food there.'  
Dad reached into the cold and came back with a green jar. 'For now that'll do.'  
My eyebrows rose up. 'Pickles?'  
A bit surprised dad glanced aside and chuckled. 'Not a good lunch, is it?'  
'Not really.' I strolled over to one of the cabinets, picked a big bag of bread rolls and held it up. 'But they are great on a sandwich!'  
'Sandwich?' my father looked amazed. 'Are you hungry or something?'  
Hungry? I had to think about that, before I started to grin. 'Yeah, I think so.'

After this, dad and I began a scavenger hunt through the kitchen, collecting everything that could be used as filling. Eventually we'd stacked the kitchen table, took a knife and began creating the sandwich of all sandwiches, combining flavours and colours to make it both taste and look good.  
'Don't worry, I'll tidy up,' dad halted me when I began putting back the ingredients.  
'It's no effort,' I reassured him. 'I'll leave the clean up to you.'  
'Alright then,' dad chuckled, while he put a half-empty jar of pickles back in the fridge. 'As long as you also let me do the washing-up.'

We took our plates with us to the couch, where we began munching on our heavy lunch. By the time I nibbled on the final pieces of tomato, I noticed dad was staring into emptiness again, frowning like he was trying to read something minuscule written on the wall opposite. It was a look I had begun to recognise as the one he had whenever the past was catching up with him. He seemed a century away.  
'Do you think,' he began cautiously, 'I should try the suit? You know, to help him remember?' The suit, the suit… what he actually meant was whether Bucky would remember Captain America better than Steve Rogers. The notion made me furious.  
'What?!' I couldn't believe my ears. Had he just really suggested that? 'Why on earth would the suit work?' I demanded indignantly. 'Have you any idea what that suit means to the people that love you?'  
Dad seemed dumbstruck by my passionate reaction. 'What….?' he muttered confused.  
I shook my head, shaking lightly, and put my plate down - just to be sure it wouldn't end shattered on the floor. I tried to articulate as good as possible, while also staying beneath a certain volume. I didn't want to be angry, though I did want to be very clear about this. 'It means you have to play Captain America again. It means we're proud you're doing good to the world, and it also means we're angry and jealous because you can't do good things for us-' I sighed, rosy shame creeping up to my cheeks, 'right, for me. Part of me glows with pride whenever I see you wearing that. But another part of me - which I'm not particularly proud of -' I quickly added, 'hates it.  
So,' I concluded, taking a deep breath to calm myself down, 'if Bucky ever truly cared about you, that suit won't do a damn thing to bring him back.'  
Dad stared baffled at me. Suddenly I feared I had insulted or hurt him. These were feelings I had kept hidden for a long time, and I'd hoped I would never have to share them. However, if it could help dad get his friend back…  
Dad slowly opened his mouth - I cringed with fear, backing off. 'How long have you felt like this?'  
I couldn't quite figure out how he felt yet; he had his voice too much under control. 'I-ehr…' my words faltered, and my cheeks coloured a deeper crimson.  
'It's okay,' dad reassured me in a soft voice. He, too, had a slightly flustered face, which was weird considering I had been the one saying embarrassing things. 'I never really thought of it that way,' he confessed. 'I need to- I need a moment to think,' he pleaded. I nodded, happy to give him all the time he needed to just… _tell_ me what was going on in his head.

After a while of my father contemplating deeper than the thinker himself, dad continued our conversation. 'I want to apologise.'  
'Apologise?' It was the last thing I had expected. To be honest, I had anticipated something of a rant why I should be proud and honoured to have Captain America as a father. This… not so much.  
'You helped me realise being "Captain America" has been something I use as… an escape, I guess. Something I have used to prevent I had to face my personal life. It was easier for me to be the Captain, because he never doubts, he knows what to do. Steve Rogers usually doesn't.'  
I tilted my head. 'That's nothing to be sorry for.'  
Dad shook his head vigorously. 'It is. Because I see now, that by hiding behind that shield while also "keeping you safe", I was pushing you away. And I'm really sorry for that.' Shocked, I noticed the wetness of my father's eyes; I hadn't seen him cry since my mother passed away.  
Urgently I moved closer, grabbing his hand to make sure I had all his attention, to make sure he wouldn't feel guilty. 'No, dad, I get it. I started to understand when I was locked up. Because after I stopped fearing a very near death, I started to fear you might lose somebody again. I realised that after everything you've done, everything you've been through and everything you've lost, you deserve a bit of happiness. And I want to help you get it.'  
Now I had salty eyes too. Dad smiled and took me in his strong arms.  
'You don't have to get it for me,' he muttered in a rough voice. 'You have always been my happiness.'


	20. Chapter 20

That night I lay in my bed until I was certain everybody had gone to sleep. With racing heart I listened how life died out. Every time a door shut I came a bit closer to the moment of truth. Then I grabbed the metal pods I'd laid out on my desk and brought them with me as I ventured yet again to the white prison.

I turned on the light. Bucky moved somewhere on my left, but I'd decided to pretend he wasn't there while setting up. If I told myself he wasn't there, I would be able to concentrate better. He didn't move much while I prepared my plan, although I did feel his gaze locked on me.  
'Let's see…' I muttered to myself. 'Where do I begin?'  
Quietly commenting on my own actions, I went around the room to plant the pods in the corners, and in the centre. Five green lights blazed on, making me rather happy. I took my tablet, and started working Tony's creation.  
First the walls, giving them the same grey roughness I'd had around me for many days. Then the ceiling and the floor. I adjusted the lamps until they gave off exactly the right amount of light.  
Slowly the room morphed into a cell which hadn't been kinder, but did feel more familiar.

It was exactly like I remembered: too small, too low, and just like an animal's cage. But most importantly, a place Bucky and I had gotten used to each other.  
My clenched fists trembled and my eyes burned as they took in the old "bed", holographically recreated. 'You see?' I breathed, while a claw gripped around my heart and began squeezing it. 'Just like old times, aint it?'  
Indeed, Bucky seemed to have ceased struggling. I turned around. His chest was moving up and down fairly evenly. There was barely any movement, so I dared to come near him again.  
Bit by bit I shifted near the shackled man, not looking him directly in the eyes. Carefully, I reached out. 'Now I'm gonna do something dad would hate me for.' I closed my eyes for a second. 'Let's call it a leap of faith.' At that, I pressed a small red button and the steel shackles fell off Bucky's wrists, ankles and metal arm.  
Slowly, with the gracefulness and yet swiftness of a cat, Bucky got up and moved to the other side of the cell. He was staring at me, though no longer as if I were a monster. Now he seemed more intrigued. We held a stare off, which neither of us wanted to win. I was ice-cold, and my clenched fingers were frozen.  
'Better, isn't it?' I squeaked. 'To be free?' My hand went up to my chest. Suddenly I was wheezing. I hadn't realised how my heartbeat had accelerated until it was almost a continuous rumble. Neither had I noticed how the world had started spinning. But now the walls charged towards me and the ceiling fell down. In a matter of seconds I would be crushed. My ribs were already almost collapsing underneath the pressure.  
I gasped, and gasped and gasped - nothing. My arms flailed out to find some support, encountering nothing more than the wall, so I stumbled back, pressing myself up against the smooth surface concealed by the virtual veil of the JAM.  
With my eyes closed my back slid down, until I hit the ground and curled up into a ball. Still, the world was crushing me. I was dying. I was drowning. I was losing a fight to the universe.  
'Jay?'  
I was back. Back in the chair. Alexander Pierce was grinning down at me. His face changed, it started to melt. Drips of skin fell down, searing my skin, sizzling on the floor. Drops splashed, until underneath it was nothing more than a burnt blood red skull. "Heil Hydra!" he grinned before he pressed down on a big red button, and I fell.  
'Jay?' The voice was closer now. It spoke my name insecurely, as if it were more difficult to pronounce.  
Still falling. Falling down a chasm of fire and smoke. Still not able to breath.  
'Jay.'  
Something touched me. Something real.  
Something curled around me. Something protective and gentle.  
Someone was embracing me.

I didn't even open my eyes. I didn't need to look. For I could feel the warmth of a human body - and the cold of a metal limb. One arm was curled around my back, one rested on the back of my head. The sensation was enough to keep me from falling. He had snatched me from the pit, and slowly I could breathe again. Although, my breath still came out raspy, uneven. The gasping turned into sobs sending uncontrollable shockwaves through my body.  
'Why won't it go away?' I squeaked through the sobs.  
'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…' His voice cracked. 'You're free now. You're safe.' His arms closed even tighter around me.  
Free.  
Safe.  
The rising and falling of my chest returned to a steady, slow rhythm, and my heart stopped running, too. Salty tears trickled down the bridge of my nose, tickling my eyelashes.  
'Thank you,' I muttered.  
I emptied my mind, in a good way. Chosen oblivion can be such a bliss, and that's exactly what I needed. For weeks I hadn't stopped thinking about him. Day and night I had wondered where he was, how he was doing, what he was thinking, whether he remembered me. All I had needed was to know he was safe. Suddenly, at this moment, I not only knew no harm was being done to him, I also had a chance to help him reclaim himself.  
It was such a strange thin to be happy about, something so weird to get comfort from. Yet, that night, I slept better than I had done in ages.


	21. Chapter 21

'Jaylin!' A panicked exclamation woke me up. When I first came to I was disoriented; I was low, near the ground, huddled up against another human being. It couldn't be dad, because he was the one calling for me. Sam, then? No, not likely either: dad would never sound so fearful if his best friend was near me. At least, not the unbrainwashed one…  
All this took place within a second of opening my eyes. Shortly thereafter, I realised I hadn't been woken up by the sound, but by Bucky's startled reaction to someone opening the door.

Only when I tried to get up, I noticed the hand curled around my arm. I looked up to Bucky to tell him it was okay, that my dad wasn't a threat, but I noticed his expression wasn't one of fear, instead one of deep concentration and frustration. He had probably grabbed me protectively the moment dad had opened the door and hadn't let go since.  
'Jaylin?' There was slightly less fear in his voice now I had answered.  
'It's okay, I'm okay dad,' I called through the darkness, which was abruptly replaced by blazing light. Instantly my eyes were closed shut. Through squinted eyes I saw Bucky was still intensely focused on the figure in the doorway. 'Uhm… Bucky…?' The soldier tore his attention away from my father. 'Yeah, hey… Could you, maybe, let go of me?'  
Confused, Bucky looked down. He registered his hand around my arm and immediately let go. 'Sorry…'  
'It's okay,' I smiled. 'Thank you for… last night.'  
He nodded, not meeting my eyes. There was nervousness and embarrassment in his body language, but no longer fear. The best thing, however, was that he was speaking – in English, no less. To reassure him I briefly took his left hand and gave it a little squeeze which didn't really work, except that his eyes briefly found me again. Then I pushed myself off the floor. Behind me I heard Bucky stand up as well as I crossed the room. Dad was still standing in the doorway, frozen in something not describable as fear, but more as a total lack of knowledge of what to do with the situation.  
'It's okay dad, I'm okay.'  
Dad scanned me, checking for any sign I was lying. Then he stepped forwards, surprising me with a tight hug. 'Dad, wha-' The sentence never got finished because I realised he'd probably found my bed empty, reminding him of the time I wasn't here.  
'What is this place?' he asked after he'd let me go and curiously examined the virtual "decoration" of the room.  
That's right; dad had never seen this place. No one had. 'My cell when Bucky patched me up.' Unconsciously, my hand felt my stomach and encountered the rough scar underneath the fabric of my pyjama's.  
'Oh…' He kept his eyes glued to the room. Every part of it, except for the corner Bucky was still standing, awkwardly trying to blend in with the fake concrete.  
I moved a few feet, bend down, and picked up the tablet. With one click, the white reappeared. A weight fell off my shoulders. 'Why don't we take Bucky to the kitchen so we all can have some breakfast?' I suggested. Bucky rose his head when I called his name and seemed to instantly regret it.  
'I-' dad stared conflicted at the middle pod's blinking light. He looked up startled when I put my hand on his arm.  
'I think it's okay. I got through to him, to Bucky. It was only the fear that made him a bad listener.'  
Dad shook his head, his eyes swirling to his old friend for a split second. 'I guess it does. Maybe it's something we picked up during the war.'

Thus, I looked back over at Bucky, smiled carefully and gestured with my head towards the door. 'You commin'?'  
Without looking at my father, and while keeping his head low, he shrugged.  
'Great. Let's go!' Exaggeratedly happy I took dad's hand and tugged at him until he left for the kitchen; this way, I hoped to give Bucky some space, which he obviously needed.

Thankfully, Bucky followed, though he moved at a slightly slower speed than I knew him capable of. In the meantime, it gave me time to think of what to eat for breakfast. I decided on something traditional; bacon, toast, scrambled eggs and coffee. Well, orange juice for me; I wasn't really a coffee person.  
I was already busy cracking eggs when the former prisoner appeared in the doorway. He wavered a little and then moved to the table, where he sat down on the opposite side of dad, without ever meeting his eye. He brought along a tense silence.  
After a while dad cleared his throat. 'Can I help you, Jay?'  
'Sure.' I told him he could do prepare the bacon. Within no time, thin strips of pork were sizzling in a pan. The smell of baking meat filled the kitchen, chasing away some of the suspense the quietness had brought.  
It didn't take long until there were six plates filled with delicious, warm foods, and our little group was completed when Sam, Natasha and Tony joined us around the dinner table. Bucky didn't look at any of them, so I decided to take the seat closest to them, sensing I was the one Bucky felt most comfortable around.  
Thankfully, the team decided to make it as easy as possible for Bucky, asking no questions or directing any attention to the new member. Instead, they started a conversation which kept them busy for the entire duration of breakfast. Meanwhile, my brains were working themselves numb to find a conversation starter; alas, even the weather was a no-go, since both of us hadn't really gone out much lately. So I decided to keep my mouth shut, mindlessly shoving egg into my mouth while regularly glancing aside. Bucky pushed his food around on his plate, taking a couple bites, but lacking appetite.  
Afterwards, Sam offered to do the dishes and asked dad to help him. I took it upon myself to bring Bucky to one of the empty rooms available in the tower and told him to wait, so I could get him some fresh clothes.

When I returned, Bucky was sitting on the bed, staring at the wall opposite.  
'Here,' I said softly, laying down the stack of clothes beside him. 'These are my dad's. I thought, he's so big, anyone can fit into his clothes, right?'  
To my great satisfaction, it earned me the tiniest of slightly reluctant smiles, overpowering some of the confusion and sadness. 'Thank you.'  
I dipped my head. 'You're welcome.'  
Then there was silence. What else was there to say? At that moment there was too much chaos in my head; I had gotten Bucky to free himself from the Winter Soldier - or at least for a big part -, but I didn't know whether or not he was my father's Bucky, or the guy I'd gotten to know, or somebody totally different. And if I didn't know who I was talking to, how was I supposed to know what to say?  
Briefly, I put my hand on his muscular shoulder. 'It's gonne be fine,' I uttered hastily, more to myself than anybody else, before I left him alone, so both of us could sort out our minds.  
Though despite that chaos, my lips curled up into the slightest of grins; we'd made progress. He was eating, talking, and he seemed aware of who I was and how he knew me. I only had to keep him moving forwards, then everything would indeed be alright.


	22. Chapter 22

At lunchtime I came back to Bucky's new room to hand over some more nutrition, and I was surprised to see him all freshened up. Especially the light blue shirt he was wearing made him seem almost normal, were it not for the hunted look in his eyes. The darkness lingering there was something I could only partially understand, while a big part of it lay in traumas I couldn't even begin to fathom.

After I'd given him the food, he sat down behind the desk, which was very similar to mine, and fiddled around with the plate's content. He didn't eat much, and when I came back in the evening to bring him dinner, he hadn't finished a great deal of his lunch. It occurred to me he probably wasn't used to this kind of food or food in quantities more than strictly necessary. The thought came with a deep sadness, and I wished I knew a way for him to get over the things he'd been through.  
Suddenly, I had another thought, and with hope in my heart I ran to my room, took a pen and notebook from one of the drawers inside my mostly unused desk and returned.  
'Here,' I panted, holding out the writing materials. 'It's- it's- hold on.' After a couple big gulps of air I could speak again. Bucky seemed slightly worried by my strawberry face and stood up quickly, holding out his chair.  
'No, I'm okay, I'll take the bed.' I plopped down on the unused bed, patting the blanket beside me, like I'd done when I was still trapped.  
In Bucky's eyes I could see the spark of recognition before he sat down and looked at the notebook in my hands.  
My index finger trailed the silver letters spelling out "notebook". 'I know it seems almost too simple, but for me it really helped to clear my mind. Maybe it'll do the same for you,' I told him, while I handed it over. Bucky took it, opening the small book and thumbing through the empty pages.  
'You've written a lot?' he glanced up from the book, his dark hair blocking parts of his eyes.  
'Not really,' I confessed, 'I'm not the writing type. Though I have filled tons of sketchbooks with all sorts of memories, from my time at HYDRA to shards of images of my childhood - anything that came to mind, really. By converting these chaotic memories onto paper they seem to come to rest in my head.'  
Bucky nodded absentmindedly. 'So you're at rest now?'  
I sighed. 'Most of the time. Well, you know how I was last night…' The pen slid down when I placed it on the line between two pages. Bucky's eyes darkened again. He looked away, his jaw tense, his hands gripping the notebook tight. 'I think time is key here, really.' Absolutely, I thought. Time was everything, along with the right people around you. So, if I played my part, I'd give him the time he needed.  
Only when I was already at the door, Bucky rose his head. 'Thank you.'  
I smirked. 'You really got to stop saying that. Honestly, I'm just returning the favour.'  
Before I could find out whether Bucky remembered what I meant, I shut the door behind me.

The following day I brought another three meals, all of which he didn't finish completely, though I thought the plates did become lighter and lighter. Every time I entered his room, Bucky was writing like his life depended on it - in a way, it did.  
The day after that, he still didn't leave his room, though was eagerly awaiting my arrival, immediately asking for another notebook when I put down his lunch. Happily, I rushed to fulfil his request; I even watched him a while as he was writing. From a distance I couldn't make out individual words, though I noticed how his handwriting was incredibly sloppy – he probably hadn't held a pencil in forever.

It took me a while to realise he wasn't just writing a lot, but that he was crossing out at least half of what he wrote down. Those pen strokes were incredibly forceful, sometimes even ripping the paper. I dared not mention it yet, realising it might upset him and bring damage to the familiarity we'd build.  
However, I didn't need to; one morning he wasn't writing when I arrived at his room, instead sitting with his face in his hands, staring at a blank page. He gave a start when I came in, rubbing his by darkness encircled eyes.

'Brought some more food,' I announced a bit more cheerful than befitted my mood. 'Apparently our bodies keep burning it.'  
The mug of coffee wiggled when I put the tray down. The brown liquid danced around a bit never coming near the edge.  
'Just tell me if you need anythi-' I was already turning away when he interrupted me.  
'I do, actually.' He looked away when he said it. 'I do need something. Well, I wanted to request something of you.'  
Happy there might be something to speed up the healing process, I asked, 'What is it?'  
Bucky bit his lip. 'See, I have all these memories in my head. But they're vague… I don't know-,' he sighed, 'I don't know if what I remember is true. I hoped,' he wrung his hands, '- if it isn't too much to ask - you might want to tell me your part of the story, so I can see if I can trust my memories.'  
'I-' momentarily I wasn't sure what to say. Of course I wanted to help him, but the story he wanted to hear was one I hadn't told anyone, not with many details, anyway. Naturally, he already knew it, but he wasn't the only one who didn't always know which memories were just that, and which were altered (if not completely made up) by my own mid.  
'It's too much,' Bucky said hastily, 'I understand. I should've never asked that of you. I'm sorry.' He looked down again.  
'No, it's not that. It's just that I'm not really sure if I can trust my own memories…' My fingers tugged at a loose thread at the seam of my shirt. It became just a little longer. 'However…' using some acrobatic motions my fingers made a tiny knot in the thread, 'I shouldn't use that as an excuse. I can't tell you to face your memories if I don't do the same, right?'

Bucky insisted again I shouldn't just do this for him, but I didn't listen to him. I just invited him to the bed again, asking if he could hand me the notebook and the pen, for if we were going to do this, we were going to do this the old-fashioned way – or at least, _our_ way.  
'So,' I instantly began dropping the ink on the paper, 'this is the story of how we met.' Swiftly I looked up and gave Bucky a melancholic smile.  
On the paper first appeared a bus, wrecked and smoking, while a small figure lay on the road. 'That's me,' I explained, 'that's how it all began. Just a stupid accident, that could've happened to everybody.' Beside the broken vehicle, I drew the building we found ourselves in at that same moment. Next to it appeared a dark sky with the even darker silhouettes of trees with one glimmer between them. 'That's the first I saw of you,' I murmured. 'Up to this point it's pretty clear. But then I got hit. I remember a car, at least I think I do.'  
'I remember that, too.' Bucky was frowning at the little white dot on the drawing. It was strange to think how different his point of view must've been from mine – how far away he'd still been at that point.  
'Do you mind if I just draw for now? I'm better at that than explaining myself in words.'  
'Sure, whatever you want.' Bucky's lips turned up a little. 'I actually enjoy watching you draw.'

So that's what I did; I drew a dark figure holding a slack body and a dark, poorly lit room, I drew a needle and bandages and I drew to people sitting next to each other on a bed – a situation much like the one we were in now, but the world around them had changed. Though I also drew a chair, thé chair, and the room that chair was kept. I drew a huddled up human held and cared for by the dark figure. I drew the figure standing over the little human, who had one arm up to the figure's face… then the cell wasn't so empty anymore; there was dad, carrying me back. A jet flew through the sky, back to the tower, there was a real bed. Eventually there was a bright room, and the dark figure embracing the little human.  
To finish it off, I replicated the drawing I could recall, ending with the meadow.  
'That's near your house,' Bucky muttered, 'you come by it when you visit your mother's grave.' His eyes took in every last line of my drawings, almost absorbing them into his own mind.  
'You should see it some time,' I whispered back.  
When our eyes met, something clicked into place. Like pieces of a messed up puzzle, that still fit perfectly.


	23. Chapter 23

Quite a lot of days later (during which Bucky's behaviour didn't change much - as I had to tell my father with lead in my stomach), something strange happened. Namely, when I heard a lot of commotion in the hallways and I could see a jet waiting outside, I went out to the living room to say dad goodbye, though when I arrived there, he wasn't wearing his suit yet.  
'Aren't you running a little late?' I teased when I caught my father's eye. 'I thought Tony's usually the one not ready on time.'  
Dad shook his head. 'I'm not going, Jay.'  
'You're- what?' My jaw dropped; that wasn't a sentence I had heard before.  
'He's not going,' someone repeated behind me. Sam came into view, his wings already hanging around his shoulders.  
For confirmation I looked back at dad, who was smiling. 'It's true,' he shrugged. 'I'm supposed to be here, and I'm not going to run from my own life anymore.'  
Amazed, I laughed and pulled one hand through my hair. 'I think I might be dreaming.'  
My two caretakers looked at each other and grinned in that way they used to do when I was little and I'd made a particularly good drawing or said something "adorable". "That's our little girl," their eyes seemed to say.  
Dad went over to Natasha to chat and Sam turned to me. 'I'm so happy you two finally talked.'  
I grinned, still a bit dazed from the changes in my world. 'Me too. I should have let my pig-headedness go a long time ago.'  
Sam chuckled. 'Like father, like daughter. Well, it seems you two don't need me to be the middleman anymore. I think I'll start packing once this mission is over.'  
'What, no!' alarmed I grasped Sam's arm. 'We need you, Sam! We-'  
'Easy, easy,' Sam shushed me. 'I was just joking.'  
The terror started seeping away. 'Oh, good.' My cheeks flared red, and I pushed him against the shoulder. 'Nobody makes waffles like you.'  
Now Sam laughed again, shortly embraced me, and went on to join the redheaded spy and gold-and-red plated genius on another mission to save the world. Side by side dad and I watched the jet leave, until the dot disappeared beyond the skyline.  
I looked at the clock; it seemed about time to go check up on Bucky. I turned and suddenly noticed my father's face as he thought I'd left the room; an immense sadness took over his blue eyes, and he stared into the abyss of the past. Balls of lead rolled around in my stomach. What was going around his head? I could only imagine; after so many years, his best friend wasn't dead. Instead, he was the man responsible for his daughter's kidnapping. Now he was finally inside the same building, without his friend trying to hurt him. Alas, their friendship still wasn't restored, because his friend didn't remember him.  
Or did he?

No matter how the relationship between Bucky and me had changed, there was still a big part of him he was shielding from sight; he seemed to consider his words well, and pulled back any time he spoke too freely. Thus, even though he now finished his meals, kept himself presentable and crossed out less and less of his own words, I thought it might be time for another step.  
'Hey, Bucky.' I leaned against the side of his desk, pretending to be more at ease than I actually was.  
The writer made some fierce dots and put down his pen. Raising his head, he gave me all of his attention. 'Jay.'  
I loved the way he gave me this careful smile. He'd started doing this a couple days ago, and I couldn't get enough of it; it made his former gentlemen shine through layers of dark years. The blue of his eyes seemed just a bit bluer when he spoke my name.  
'I was thinking,' I drew little flowers on the surface of the desk, watching my finger as I did so. A small strand fell down and tickled my nose. To my surprise, Bucky hand went up and put it back behind my ear. The back of his hand graced my cheek. It startled me enough to forget what I was saying.  
'You were thinking?' he reminded me gently.  
'Oh, yes.' Internally, I shook myself. 'I wondered if you might wanted to come write in the living room. I mean, Sam, Nat and Tony are all on a mission, so there's barely anyone who can bother you. Only me and dad are still-'  
'No.' Briskly Bucky turned away. His entire body stiffened, and his eyes started darting around - avoiding mine. 'Sorry,' he said a bit softer, 'I think I'd rather stay here.'  
'Bu-' I shut my mouth; I immediately realised there was no way I could talk him into doing this. My posture slumped and I stared at his averted face. Softly, I put a hand on shoulder. I thought I heard a sigh when I did this. 'It's okay. Just- You're welcome if you change your mind.'  
But Bucky wouldn't look at me. I caught one glimpse of his blue eyes and saw a stormy sea of thoughts swirl around. Yet, I had a feeling he was in the midst of making up his mind about… something.


	24. Chapter 24

Whenever I decide to stay up late, I always think at the beginning of the evening it's going to be easy. But then all the lights die out, and my eyes start to complain and my eyelids sneakily start to slide down. Theoretically, I could turn on the lights; however, it would probably ruin my plan, so I had to pinch myself every other minute and just do my best. After a while I noticed my eyes had been closed for at least a minute, so I cursed myself and started counting in my head.  
One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… nine… ten… eleven… twelve… thirteen…

One thousand and one… one thousand and two… one thousand and three… one thousand and four… one thousand and five… one thousand and six… one thousa…

My head shot up. Nothing. I had been sitting in the dark, barely staying awake, for what felt like hours now. I'd nodded off a couple times, but woken myself up by violent realising what was happening. At last, when I'd yawned a thousand times, my wake paid off; somewhere inside the building a door was shut. Due to the night's silence the sound carried through the empty hallways all the way to my couch.  
A dark silhouette appeared from the hallway, a dark shape on his back. He was half way through the living room when my fingers pushed the button and the lights turned on. He froze.  
'And where do you think you're going?'  
At least he had the decency to look guilty. 'Jay…'  
'Nah-ah.' I shook my head. 'That's not the answer to my question, Bucky.'  
Bucky looked away, his lips pressed together, desperately looking for a way out. 'Jay…' he repeated my name, even sadder now.  
My body ached when I rose from my slouched position and stretched my legs. 'Please,' I begged, 'just tell me. It's okay, I won't get mad.'  
The man looked once more longingly at the door, then sighed and sat down on the closest couch, defeated. Relieved he'd decided to talk, I occupied the other end of two-seater. I took in Bucky's posture, which tried to make him look smaller than he actually was – it wasn't working, though there was nothing frightening about him anymore.  
'You've been too kind to me,' Bucky began slowly. Instantly, I wanted to disagree, but bit my tongue, knowing I shouldn't interrupt someone who was trying to put their most inner thoughts to words. 'From all people, you should be the one avoiding me, not helping me. And since I… woke up, I've had a chance to clear my mind - to whatever extend that's possible,' he huffed darkly, 'and I've tried to understand who I am. I don't think I'm the Winter Soldier anymore – but how can someone other than me live inside this body?' He looked at his hands, tensioning and relaxing them.  
Yeah, how could that be possible? To a certain extent, I'd asked myself that question, too. I bit my lip. 'I know I can't possibly know how you feel or what you've been through, but I've had… let's call it "a taste" of it. Whenever I recall my time with Pierce, I don't feel like I'm recalling my own memories. How could it be me without the memories that have made me who I am?' I took one of the little decorative pillows and squished it between my chest and arms; it was always better for me to hold something close when I travelled back to those moments.  
Bucky grimaced. 'Doesn't that make me the Winter Soldier? I remember…' his voice cracked, 'I remember all the things I-he has done.'  
'No,' I replied firmly. 'The things he did were done without you deciding to do it, because the man who grew up in New York and fought the war on the side of the good guys wasn't in control.'  
The frown between Bucky's eyebrows deepened. He leaned forwards and covered his eyes with one hand. I didn't want to intrude in this moment of fragility, though simultaneously I wanted to support him. Carefully, I leaned in and took his free hand. Bucky looked up from between his fingers. 'I know you remember, about my dad. I have no clue how much, but you do remember things. Why do you pretend you don't?'  
It took a while for Bucky to formulate an answer. Meanwhile, he glanced down at the hand I was holding without taking it away from my careful grip. 'Because I can't remember everything. And I don't want to disappoint him, 'cause I am not the guy he hopes to see in me.'  
'But why are you talking to me, then?'  
Bucky huffed. Then he muttered almost too quietly to hear, 'Because I can't help it.' Then he replied louder, 'Because you know - you understand - that nobody who sits in that chair comes out like the person they used to be.'  
'Hmm…' I thought about that for a moment. Then I let go of Bucky's hand, threw away the pillow and gestured. 'Come.'  
Finally, Bucky raised his head again and followed after a short hesitation. I lead him to my room and sat him down on my bed. After I rummaged around in the drawers of my desk, I went back to join Bucky on the bed. On my lap lay a thick book with small corners peaked from the sides. I opened it about halfway, leafed through it, and shifted it over to Bucky's lap.  
There were four pictures visible, all of my seventeenth birthday. On one I was opening presents, eagerly ripping away the brightly coloured wrapping paper. One down I smirk-smiled at the camera with the birthday cake Sam had made for me, though it was beautifully decorated with chocolate branches and an almost lifelike bird, obviously drawn by my father. A bit up and to the right was a picture of me trying out some of the paints I had gotten as a present, and the final photo depicted me with dad, Sam, Natasha and Tony, all grinning at the camera.  
Bucky took them all in without speaking a word.  
'Yeah, that's me,' I sighed. 'But is it, is it really?' Bucky looked up when I asked this, a strange intensity in his eyes. 'That person on these pictures, is that the me you see before you?' I got no answer, though I didn't need one; I answered my own question, 'No, it isn't. I am no longer the Jay my father used to know, but he still loves me. And Steve Rogers,' it felt strange to call him by his name, 'is no longer the guy from the 1940's you used to know. Everybody changes. That doesn't mean we stop loving them.'  
A bit of hope started to smoulder in his eyes. The idea he could have people who cared for him again was tugging at him. Carefully, I closed the picture album and put is beside me. Now I had one hundred percent of his attention.  
'It won't do any of us good if you just sneaked off in the middle of the night. And from personal experience, I can tell you Steve can actually be a very good and understanding listener, so just talk to him, will ya?'  
Our eyes were locked until Bucky nodded, very slowly. 'I'll try.'  
Relieved, I smiled. 'Do or do not, there is no try,' I teased in a slightly distorted voice. I got a puzzled look and I laughed. 'Sorry. That's from a movie.'  
Bucky lips curled up at the corners and he put his hand on mine. 'I won't say "thank you", because you don't want me to-'  
'You just did,' I cut him off.  
His eyes softened even more. His teeth shone in the electrical light, just as his eyes did. 'You don't give in, do you, Jay?'  
No, I don't. It's the one thing about me that can be incredibly irritating, but also brought me to where I am today. Actually, it's the thing that has brought the shield to my father's arm as well. And if it was up to me, it would be the thing that brought two best friends back together.


	25. Chapter 25

Bucky seemed very nervous when he sat at the kitchen table the next morning. He was fidgeting and shifting all the time, but he was there and stayed, not breaking his promise, yet.  
'Morning,' I yawned as I shuffled into the kitchen.  
'Morning.' Bucky seemed a lot more awake than I felt, even though we'd both been awake that night.  
With a gracious arch, I put a frying pan on the stove and started laying down strips of bacon.  
'Good morning, Jay,' I heard my father's voice from behind me.  
I turned around and beamed. 'Good morning!'  
As I watched, dad realised who was sitting at the kitchen table and stiffened. The same had happened to Bucky a couple seconds ago, and he was purposefully not looking at the doorway. This was going to require a soft push.  
'Hey, dad, could you take over the bacon for me please?'  
Dad's gaze shifted back to me. 'Sure,' he agreed, trying hard to sound nonchalant.  
'Great.' As soon as dad had taken over the pan, I grabbed some eggs from the fridge, cracked them on the edge of the pan and started stirring. When the eggs began solidifying, I addressed Bucky, 'Hey, Bucky, could you perhaps take over the eggs for me? I gotta go to the bathroom.'  
'I- sure.'  
I noticed dad's posture change when Bucky came forwards and took over the pan. 'Thanks,' I beamed. Then I gave Bucky a long, piercing look, until he nodded. 'Bye.'  
With a excited tingle in my stomach I left the two soldiers alone.

I paced around my room, not knowing how long I had to wait before I came back. Bucky would talk, wouldn't he? Yes, I told myself, his eyes had made it clear he would.  
I was absolutely convinced that if Bucky accepted dad back into his life, he'd truly be able to start healing. Again, I was in awe of Bucky's strength, at how there was still a person underneath decades of torture. Then again, you must be strong to survive living with a Rogers. I chuckled and shook my head; me and my father really weren't easy people to live with.

After a couple minutes, I sniffed; something was burning. Quickly I returned to the kitchen. When I walked in, my father had his hand on Bucky's shoulder and said in a soft, sincere voice, 'It's good to have you back, Buck.'  
I felt horrible for having to interrupt this intimate moment, but I really didn't think either of them were noticing the smell, and I didn't feel like putting out a small kitchen fire.  
'Uhm… guys… I think we need to get those pans off the stove…'  
'What? Oh!' A couple seconds after I'd drawn attention to the burnt food, dad grabbed the switches of the stove and turned them down completely. Then we just looked at each other for a while.  
'I guess that means we've gotta start over?' I looked at both men and smiled; how far they'd come, only to stand here together in a kitchen with burning breakfast. My life is weird.  
Dad smiled at me. 'Yes. I think it's time for a fresh start.'

Dad instructed Bucky and me to take a seat at the table, so he could begin making breakfast all over again. Though because he was in an uncharacteristically good mood, he told us he would make pancakes.  
Bucky, too, was in a good mood, though with him it was a lot more hidden. It was mostly the way he sat more relaxed.  
I put my hand on his arm. 'Thank you,' I muttered quietly.  
He chuckled softly. 'I can't thank you, but you can thank me?'  
'Sorry,' I grinned, 'I don't make the rules.'  
'You don't?' Bucky grinned back.

'Sooooo,' I eyed my father mischievously when he'd arrived at the table with a stack of pancakes like the Empire State building. I snatched a small stack of my own.  
'So?' Dad held the plate out to Bucky, who eagerly accepted a few pancakes.  
'Yeah, sooooooo…' I stretched the last vowel while I poured a waterfall of syrup all over my pancakes. Then I handed it to Bucky, who also seemed curious. 'I think it's time.'  
Dad still didn't seem to get where I was going.  
'Aw, come on! The Howling commandos. Fighting Nazis.'  
Bucky chuckled. 'I think she wants to hear your war-stories, Steve.'  
Dad took the syrup from Bucky and over-attentively spread shiny liquid across the surface of his pancake. 'I don't think you want to hear those dull stories about very carefully devised missions…'  
'Blowing up tanks and motorcycle chases didn't seem that dull at the time,' Bucky spoke light-heartedly, 'though perhaps it's different from the point of view of the person who actually did the stupid stuff.'  
'Blowing up tanks!' My chest swelled up in indignation. 'You blew up tanks?'  
'What'd you think he did?' Bucky seemed highly amused by dad's embarrassed face.  
'I don't know, I always imagined "very carefully devised missions" with snipers and disabling machinery.' Incredulously I stared at my father. 'I'm starting to believe that's only what he wanted me to believe.'  
The corners of dad's mouth slowly curled up. 'It took me a lot of convincing to keep Tony quiet about that.'  
'I bet you did!' Shaking my head, I cut off a big piece of fluffy pancake and put it in my mouth.  
'Well, you should start by telling her how you lied about your identity over and over again while you tried to get into the army.'  
'Bucky!' But dad was smiling at his friend, who was wearing a teasing expression.  
'Yeah,' I agreed, having chewed and swallowed my big bite, 'maybe you should start with that!'  
Dad was shaking his head. 'I'm never going to hear the end of this, am I?'  
I grinned. 'Nope.'  
'This is exactly why I didn't tell you these things in the first place…' he tried to look irritated and angry, but he just couldn't manage the negative expression with Bucky and me sitting so close to him, happily munching away on pancakes with syrup. He just shook his head again, his eyes glowing with a warmth I recognised from my own heart, and began the epic tale of little, determined Steve Rogers, who wouldn't let anyone tell him what he could and couldn't do through which he eventually ended up in the twenty-first century.  
Bucky listened, though he liked to add details my father let out about the size of an explosion, the risks dad had taken or how stupid his plans were. Every time he could add something, he smiled contently, especially when it made my father sigh or earned him another laugh from me.  
I just sat back and enjoyed the moment. It was exactly what I'd always wished for; my dad telling me crazy stories about his youth. Admittedly, I'd imagined stories about sneaking off in the middle of the night to go meet friends, not stories containing a star-spangled suit made for fighting Nazis. Somehow, I didn't find it weird.  
I think my weirdness metre broke a long, long time ago.


	26. Chapter 26

'Jay, I was thinking,' dad played a bit with the eggs on his plate, 'your room here is a bit bare, isn't it?'  
I swallowed a big bite of salty, crispy bacon. 'I think boring is the word you're looking for.'  
Dad laughed. 'Anyway, I thought we could brighten it up with some paint.'  
By proposing to decorate my room here, dad subtly let me know we'd be staying her for a while. Strangely enough, it didn't bother me at all. Sure, I still felt homesick for our white wooden house, but I'd learned to be happy here. Besides, I knew it didn't mean we'd stay here forever, just that I would be spending more time in the Tower.  
'Only if you make another night's sky,' I demanded slyly. 'Oh, and if you help, Bucky.'  
Bucky was just halfway through a bite, so he just nodded and made noises of agreement.  
'I promise,' dad smiled. Now that Bucky had talked to him, he almost seemed a different person. The gloomy aura he'd carried around for days had fallen off, and I loved the newfound happiness that lay underneath. Bucky, too, had let go of the tension in his back and shoulders, the constant readiness to make a run for it. He kept glancing at me (even though he might think I didn't see it), smiling when he looked back at his food.  
After a big gulp of orange juice, I grinned. 'That's settled, then.'

With two super soldier to help me, the furniture was quickly removed from my room, and the floor was even more quickly covered in a gigantic piece of old cloth. Then we robbed one of Tony's forgotten storage facilities of buckets of paint, brushes and all the other stuff we needed, and even found some overalls, of which I was a 1000% sure Tony had never worn them in his life.  
Dad and Bucky didn't look great in their blue overalls, especially since painters usually aren't that muscular, but compared to me they looked good; I was practically drowning in fabric.  
'Oh, hush,' I smirked when both men started snickering when I exited my room.

I decided on a light blue base all around my room, which I assigned Bucky to, while the ceiling was dad's job and I took control of one of the walls and started a painting in a van Gogh's "starry night" style. This masterpiece had been one of my favourites for a very long time, due to its unusual style and its personal aesthetics.  
The background was a mysterious forest at night, with shimmering trees wearing silver leaves. On the foreground there were six silhouettes; one very ordinary one, one with a white star on his chest, one with silver wings, one with fiery red hair, one with a faint blue glowing circle in his chest, and one with a silver arm. None of them had faces, only brightly coloured eyes, most noticeably the steel blue eyes of the silver-armed silhouette. As a final touch, I added my own hand print in the middle silhouette.  
Happily, I stepped back to take in the result. With my upper arm I attempted to brush away some stray hairs.  
'You're very talented, Jay.'  
I turned around and saw Bucky cross-legged on the floor, watching me paint. Flustered, I curtsied. 'Thanks. You're done?'  
He nodded.  
'Great. Mind lending me your hand?'  
'Sure.' Without any effort Bucky stood up and dipped his hand into the red paint. 'Where exactly?'  
'Hold on.' I held his wrist and aimed his hand. 'Here.'  
Bucky pressed down on the wall, and when he pulled back there was a perfect print.  
'Perfect,' I sighed. Then I noticed I had left white spots on his arm where I had used my paint-covered hand to guide him. I had only a split second to consider my next move, and faster than I'd ever moved, I dragged my hand across Bucky's face. Immediately after, I darted away laughing, not nearly quickly enough to avoid a red streak across my cheek.  
'Whoa!' Two arms caught around my middle. I shrieked - just in time the arms stopped me from colliding with the ladder dad was standing on.  
'Be careful!' dad called down.  
My stomach ached with laughter. 'Sorry!'

To make sure Bucky and I wouldn't mess with dad's masterpiece, we moved a bit to the side and sat down.  
'What's up?' Bucky asked after I'd been staring at his face for a while.  
I bit my lip. 'It's just… that smear could perfectly be part of a mask, if only…'  
'It's okay,' Bucky chuckled, 'you can finish it.'  
'Yes!' Enthusiastically I shot forwards and knelled down in front of Bucky. Using the remaining paint on my fingers, I created a swirling mask. My fingertips traced the angles of Bucky's face, which had softened since he'd arrived here. Across his cheekbones, around his eyes, over his temples, down the bridge of his nose. Amazingly, he didn't go all cross-eye during the "makeover session". Instead, his eyes focused on me, following the slight expression changes due to my focus.  
When I'd finished, he smiled. 'My turn?'  
I considered it and shrugged; it would only be fair. 'Alright, then.'  
His face was very close to mine as he drew, and the skin tickled where he trailed his finger. I couldn't help crossing my eyes, though I fought it, so I wouldn't just see a blurry field of moving colours.  
Bucky didn't make such an intricate work as I'd done, only a simple figure consisting of a couple lines and a bit of colouring in. I recognised the shape; it was a star, a red star. I smiled at him.

Dad finished a bit later, stepping down his ladder with a content look on his face; the ceiling looked even better than the one at home. When he noticed our faces, he shook his head and told us it was time we took a shower. We both agreed.  
Before we washed our dirty faces, we watched as dad put his hand on the wall underneath the white star. Only three more to go, and my little family picture would be complete. Yes, even my mom sparkled on the picture, as the big silver moon above my silhouette. A truly strange family portrait, if I said so myself, truly befitting the strangeness of my life, but mostly the beauty of the family I had assembled over the years, and that I would protect in all the years still to come.


	27. Chapter 27

When I saw the old cemetery fence again, after everything and so much time, a lump spontaneously appeared in my throat. Though perhaps I only noticed it now; during the entire car ride I'd been dreamily watching the sunrise – in awe of the red, gold, orange and even purple in the sky –, not thinking of anything in particular. Next to me on the backseat lay a small garland of red and white flowers, ready to ornament the white stone.  
We were all quiet while the car came to a halt and we stepped out. Dad and I flanked each other on our way there, with Bucky following a step behind. We halted a few feet from mom's stone, looking down while a fresh breeze played around with my hair. The red flowers contrasted beautifully, along with the red ribbon now also fluttering in the wind.  
After a while, dad turned to me, and asked for a moment alone. Naturally, I agreed, and made a request of my own: whether I could show Bucky something. Fortunately, I received a positive answer, so I turned to Bucky and gestured towards the entrance. Briefly, he put his hand on my father's shoulder, before he walked along with me.

Strolling along the small path I had run along many a day, I enjoyed the still rising temperature of the morning winds, which rustled the leaves all around us. It took a considerate longer time to walk than it did to run, but eventually we reached the trees surrounding the now nearly sacred meadow. I glanced up at Bucky. His eyes widened when he recognised the view.  
'This is…?'  
'Yeah… it is a lot better in real life, isn't it?' I stepped a bit forward, letting my fingertips slide along the tops of the flowers, feeling the soft petals bend underneath the gentle pressure. I stopped, closed my eyes, and breathed in deeply, enjoying the warmth of the sun. When I opened my eyes again, another gust of wind let the treetops dance and stirred Bucky hair and the wide, white blouse he was wearing. I chuckled when the edges curled up and he had to rearrange the fabric.  
He smirked apologetically. 'It's a bite wide,' he confessed, 'but I like it like this. It's… freeing.'  
It was, not only for him; it was so obvious he was in control of his own appearance again. He looked so different with washed hair and a clean shaved face, a billowing white blouse and faded jeans. His current appearance barely reminded me of the Winter Soldier, though he didn't look like James Buchanan Barnes from WW2 either. It was an all-new Bucky Barnes.  
I smiled teasingly. 'It suits you.'

Elated, I nearly skipped over to a big sturdy tree and jumped up, grasping a thick branch low enough down to hold on to, and started pulling myself up. Just as my arms started to protest, I swung myself on top of the bough, turned and sat down. Now I was the one pulling down my shirt to cover my belly.  
When I looked down, I saw Bucky frown, gazing at my side, where seconds ago my skin had been visible. Not only skin, however; it was exactly the spot where the white scar still ran along my side.  
'Why don't you come up?' I called down.  
Bucky seemed a bit startled, but quickly came into motion and in no time at all he was sitting next to me. (His superhuman strength and metal limb came in handy). I shifted a bit until I sat comfortably against his shoulder and gazed out across the lush field.  
'I saw you looking.'  
'Yeah?'  
'Yeah. And I think you're doing the guilt thing again, so I just want to tell you something, okay?' I didn't wait for an answer. 'Because I have a feeling you think the scar bothers me. Let me just say that it doesn't, honestly.' Bucky didn't respond. He was looking out, just as I was, but his face told me he didn't really believe me. 'In a way I'm happy about it. This scar is a reminder of love.'  
'Love?'  
'Yes, love,' I smiled, taking his hand. 'When I got this scar, I never understood how much the people around me love me, and how much I love them. Dad, Sam, Natasha… even Tony,' I laughed quietly, 'they all care for me, but I was too blinded by dissatisfaction to see it. I just took them for granted.'  
Bucky's frown started fading. 'That sounds nice.'  
'It is,' I agreed. 'But it isn't everything. Because this scar is a reminder of a wound you healed, and it reminds me of how you helped.'  
Bucky was quiet. His eyes panned around - he was thinking deeply. Then he looked down at our hands and smiled. 'When I helped you… I don't think I had ever saved something before I met you. I only destroyed. So I'll never forget I shot you, but… if I hadn't, and I'd never met you or gotten to know you… I'd still be locked up in my own mind. But now…' incredulously he took in the little blossoms on the branches, the flowers on the ground, and finally us, sitting in a tree, 'now I have all this. I have you.'  
'Well, then,' I smiled, 'isn't it the most beautiful scar that has ever existed?  
His eyes glistened. His grip tightened a bit around my hand. 'It certainly is.'

 **Epilogue**

It isn't easy, being daughter of Steve Rogers – also known as the legend Captain America. Not at all.  
First of all, there are people out to get you, who want you to use against your father, for you are his greatest weakness.  
Second of all, your family situation can be a bit… complicated. Ages don't add up, and it's difficult to assign the typical family roles to any one of them.  
Third of all, we can both be a bit headstrong, so communication isn't always our forte. It can take an awfully long time before we tell the other one what's really going on in our heads.

They do say I look like him, with my blond hair and blue eyes, but if I'd have to point out the similarities between us, I'd say it is our determination to save those we love. Because we love fiercely, we Rogers. We don't let go easily – we've got a strong heart. Love is our greatest weakness, but that's okay, because it is also our greatest strength.  
It is how we survived the greatest of setbacks, how my father was able to pick that shield and how he still carries it today, how I was able to withstand the evil forces trying to turn me into a weapon to use against my father – it is how we brought back James Buchanan Barnes.

So, it isn't easy, being Steve Rogers' daughter. But I wouldn't change it for the world.


End file.
